


trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

by allourheroes



Series: Two Ghosts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anchors, Biting, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Derek Hale, Fuck Or Die, Ghost Derek Hale, Ghost Laura Hale, Ghost Sex, Hale Family Feels, Happy Ending, Knotting, Light Angst, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Marking, Mate or Die, Mating Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Resurrection, Rimming, Scratching, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death, True Mates, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Mates, Witch Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: Stiles Stilinski is a witch, so of course he believes inmagic. He just hadn't expected it to manifest as some reality-defining, undeniable soul bond. With a dead werewolf. What the hell?(Derek and Laura died in the fire, Scott still got turned, fate gets what it wants no matter how it has to do it, and there is a happy ending.)[COMPLETE]





	1. swimming in a glass half empty

**Author's Note:**

> **Each chapter is one day, and each day is two sections of the same period of time (Stiles POV then Laura POV).**
> 
> I wrote this as a Halloween birthday gift for myself and thanks to the influence and plot-prodding of [impalafortrenchcoats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalafortrenchcoats/works). I wanted to wait until it was 100% complete...but I also desperately wanted to post today, on actual Halloween.
> 
> A very special thank you to [Anefi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/works) for beta'ing and helping to make this something that could actually be shared with other human beings.
> 
> Please see the tags for general warnings, but I promise you that this has a happy ending. For chapters in which certain tags may apply (e.g., mild dub con), I will leave an end note to explain for those who are afraid of what it might mean. Oh, and general warning for Kate.
> 
> This is the longest thing I've written in a long time and, well, pretty much ever.
> 
> The title is from "Two Ghosts" by Harry Styles, with chapter titles coming from there and various other sources.
> 
> I PROMISE IT'S A HAPPY ENDING. :)

Everyone says the old Hale house is haunted. The fire that torched it six or so years before killed everyone inside: adults, children, _everyone_. It had been a tragedy, a freak accident… It had to have been. But it’s hard to believe even a freak accident could take out over a dozen people and leave no survivors. 

Of course, maybe it _wasn’t_ an accident.

Supposedly the Hales had been werewolves, although no actual evidence exists to prove that they were, or even that werewolves _exist_. But if they had been…

They’re all rumors passed between people who know nothing of the supernatural in the hopes of scaring someone who might believe.

And Stiles believes. Ever since his best friend was bitten a couple of years ago, Stiles has been learning more and more about all the things that go bump in the night, and all the things that he can do despite his lack of lycanthropy. All the things he can _learn_ to do.

Stiles is a witch.

The word “witch” doesn’t have the best connotation, but he’s come to terms with it. He’s a witch, _which_...is pretty cool.

He had thought his connection to Deaton, the local veterinarian-slash-werewolf doctor-slash-druid (and his best friend’s boss), would help him out more on the magic end, but Deaton is not very helpful. Most of Deaton’s advice involves being hands off unless the situation is _dire_. But, like, what does that even _mean_?

If Stiles is going to use magic, it’s going to be whenever he damn well pleases, not only because everything is already so fucked up that it’s the only option. So Stiles has had to spend a lot of time learning on his own. It’s why he mostly experiments and hopes for the best.

It’s also why he’s about to take up residence in the refurbished and repaired Hale house.

The few who have tried before him have been spooked away, but Stiles isn’t scared of spirits. In fact, that’s the reason he wants to be out in the middle of the woods. Well, to investigate spirits, nature… All things natural and witchy, really. He’s glad that there’s still a house out there since he doesn’t really want to live in a little hut, cackling and caked in dirt, thank you very much.

The mental image is enough.

He pulls his Jeep up in front of the house and stares at it. He doesn’t see flickers of movement behind the curtains or hear any unnatural noises. He mostly just sees a recreation of the pictures from before the fire: a beautiful house that used to be full of people and now sits sad and empty in the Beacon Hills Preserve, almost as if it’s already been lost to time. There are a couple of vines clinging to the side of the house trailing up, but not too many. People have tried to tame the house, to claim it as their own.

No one stays.

Stiles is very aware of himself and the building as he twists the key. It sticks a bit, but he manages to get it open and takes a look inside.

It’s dusty and...he guesses the word is “rustic,” but it’s pretty nice. It’s a big house and semi-furnished already from what others have left behind—perhaps even from the first showings of the house once it had been fixed up, dressed but not like it ever belonged to anyone in its current state. He tests the lights, the faucets, then explores the bottom floor before glancing up the stairs, several doorways leading into bedrooms, bathrooms, maybe something that could’ve been a study. Stiles had known that the house was big, but it’s one thing to look at a large house from the outside and another to wander in and realize he’s going to be in here for a while.

Hand to the wall, despite all that’s been done to it since the fire, Stiles can feel the death and loss that permeate the building. The whole place is still wounded, festering in some places, scarred over in others. Maybe he can help it heal, along with whoever or whatever still resides here. He has no idea what to expect and doesn’t know whether or not the place is actually haunted, but his interest is piqued.

It takes him two hours to lug in his stuff and make some semblance of his own space in one of the bedrooms upstairs. He unloads a bag of groceries into the kitchen along with a meager few dishes, unloads some other necessary miscellany. He unwraps a glass to fill with water and takes it up to the room.

He gets a lot settled before he has to reluctantly return to his Jeep to unstrap his old mattress from the roof of it and drag it inside, draped in a tarp to keep it clean, and he wishes he could levitate something bigger than an apple for more than a few seconds at a time. His skills are no match for a mattress.

When he gets it to the wooden bedframe in what is now his room, he’s immensely proud of himself. So proud that he wastes nearly another hour on his phone trying to figure out if magic and WiFi are compatible. He gives up that thought process without coming to any real conclusions.

Stiles decides to draw in a few wards in case something from outside wants to wander its way in, but he doesn’t do anything that might impact what’s already in the house. He’s here to understand and commune, not exorcise things without any input from the affected beings. And he hasn’t seen or felt anything yet, but Stiles thinks from the state of things that there are _beings_. Or, at least, _a_ being. He assumes he’ll find out sooner rather than later based on the stories of previous passers through.

Sunlight wanes, casting jagged shadows across the room. Stiles sighs and digs through one of the boxes until he finds his sheets. They were a gift from Lydia and a bit of a joke, at that, but Lydia is too tasteful to give him something garish, even if she did tease him for being a witch who decided to go hang out in the woods. They’re midnight blue with moons and stars and he remembers her saying, _“Embrace the aesthetic,”_ with a fond smile. He haphazardly makes the bed and tells himself he’ll steal more pillows when he goes back to his dad’s house in a couple of days.

He’s promised himself that he’ll give it _at least_ a couple of days before he breaks down and wanders back into civilization, knowing that otherwise it’s too easy to get distracted and he gets distracted enough as it is.

Dark is starting to really creep in and he remembers the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he packed because food is an actual thing he should deal with. There are a lot of things he _should_ deal with, really, but he wants to settle in his space and, much as Stiles is interested in searching out new life—or death, as the case may be—he doesn’t feel ready tonight to take full advantage of the Hale house’s amenities. In the morning, he’ll make himself breakfast in the kitchen, he’ll figure out what stuff he still needs, and he’ll traipse out into the preserve. For tonight, he looks out the window into almost total blackness under the new moon, can only really see his own reflection.

There’s something in the corner of the room, he thinks, but when he actually looks, it’s empty.

Stiles thinks about calling his dad or Scott, or even Lydia, but he just stares at his phone instead, like someone’s listening.

That’s what he gets for moving into a haunted house and, as he goes to sleep, he whispers, “Goodnight.”

A thrill goes down his spine and he smiles.

~

Laura always took care of her brother. Always.

She tries to now but there’s not much she can do.

He isn’t himself anymore. He can’t communicate. His ties to humanity hang on by almost unnoticeable threads and she hates it.

He wasn’t like this when they were young, before Kate had come into the picture. To think that they’d imagined themselves free after years passed with no sign of her, only to be trapped in their own home, their littlest cousins confused, crying, while their mother howled like it might still mean something. The smoke had been so thick, the fire had spread so quickly… There wasn’t anything they could do to save themselves.

Even then, Laura had gone to her brother’s side, had tried to protect him until the end.

But Derek Hale had died in her arms, age twenty-three, and her own death had come only moments later.

She wonders now if he’s still her brother, ravaged by guilt and unable to move on. She can’t leave him like this alone. Whether or not he acknowledges her, remembers her, he needs someone to look after him. Someone to help him. Someone to keep him from hurting others.

She never expected this, but here they are: two ghosts trapped in a facsimile of the house in which everyone else they’d ever loved had died. People come, but they mostly go.

In death, Derek’s wolf is closer to the surface.

He lashes out, he intimidates people, scares them. Laura doesn’t think they can see him, has never heard anyone describe either of them, but people can certainly feel them, feel _him_.

She tries to keep him calm and remind him that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but he doesn’t look at her with anything but a wild, animal gaze that holds no reason behind it. And she finds it odd to still see it that way, knowing that they’re barely corporeal as it is on a good day, even to each other. And some days he’s wearing the tattered remains of the clothes he died in, other days less when the wolf cries out and she can see fangs and claws.

At first though, all those years ago, sometimes she’d see him like he was. He’d look normal, vulnerable… Everything he’d been that had made him an easy victim and it makes her no-longer-existent heart ache for him. If he could talk to her, at least…

The blue Jeep that pulls up outside comes after six months or more of nothing—not that Laura is very good at keeping time anymore, but it’s been a while. She can see it on the house, the lack of care put into it leaving it more and more like a forgotten relic, the decrepit tomb in which their spirits reside.

The boy who arrives thrums with something she does not recognize, a different kind of power. His eyes roam the house perceptively, curiously, and his face is dotted with moles, mousy brown hair a bit of a mess. He’s not a wolf like them, like they were. He’s something else entirely, and he brings in groceries, sets up in Derek’s old bedroom.

He’s staying, although Laura doesn’t know how long he’ll be allowed to last, especially on his own.

Derek flickers in and out. She can see him watching the boy, taut with anger at this intruder to their den, as if it still means anything. Days are harder than nights in this form, so she knows the boy is safe until the evening at least. Maybe someone else is coming later, will provide another barrier between him and what was once her brother because even though she feels power, she can’t see it—and the amount of time and effort it takes for the boy to drag in his mattress only proves this part of her assumption.

She wants to tell him to leave, but she misses seeing humanity, remembering what people can be like when they’re still just _people_. She wants him to stay.

And then, as darkness descends and she feels herself getting stronger, despite the moon’s absence tonight, the boy turns to Derek and she feels her own curiosity grow. Did he— Did he see something? Or is it just a coincidence?

Just as quickly, the boy shakes it off and Laura thinks it’s nothing.

At least, she thinks it’s nothing until the boy is nearly out and he says, “Goodnight.”

But he’s alone. He should _think_ he’s alone with how nonchalant he sounds, but he says it aloud.

Like he knows.


	2. a fire inside, but your heart's so cold

Stiles wakes up covered in goosebumps, breath puffing out of his mouth and lungs constricting. He shivers, shakes himself to regain feeling in his long fingers, then twists them and snaps. A little witchlight— _ghostlight_ , he thinks with a smirk—swirls and forms above, casting the room in an eerie glow.

With some effort, he sucks in a breath. It’s like having a panic attack and the similarity is enough to nearly send him reeling, but he mentally appeases himself. His mouth is dry, he knows that much.

Resolutely ignoring the little twist in his stomach, he proceeds down the stairs with his emptied glass—cool to the touch, of course—and his light follows. He nearly stumbles as he registers a figure below, but manages to catch his footing and _not_ tumble down the steps. It looks like a man, but then there’s nothing, and Stiles rasps, “Right. Cool.”

He waits a second. Still nothing.

Stiles fills his glass in the kitchen sink and, for just a second, an acrid scent fills his nostrils, coats his mouth. He takes a swig of water and it’s gone like it was never there. “Sorry, dude. Just trying to get a drink.”

He ambles back up to bed, registering shadows that seem to move more than his light should allow.

He blows out his witchlight like a candle. And he, too, is out like a light.

Waking up is harder as he tries to remember where he is and why there seem to be so many noises outside. He’s surrounded by nature. Right. That’s why he’s here.

Stiles spends five minutes lying there, staring at the ceiling, before he finally stretches and flops his legs to the side. He hits the bathroom to freshen up and only when he’s back on the stairs does he remember what he saw in the middle of the night.

A ghost.

Unless it’s something else entirely. Given what happened in the house, however, he very much doubts it’s anything but a Hale lingering behind. Hell, maybe there are many Hales hanging out here still. He really has no idea since he’s only seen the one.

He cuts up a plum and starts snacking on it as he checks his phone. He finishes and sighs, trying to remember everything he wants to look for during today’s outdoor excursion, jots down a few notes, then grabs his plate to dump it in the sink before he heads out.

He does a double take at the way the juice has spiraled over the surface of the white dish. He tilts his head. “Whatever _that_ means.”

Stiles grabs his supply pack, checks for the key in his pocket, but he turns back as he gets to the door, giving a little salute to whoever may be watching before he leaves.

He’s gone over it a few times but once he gets farther out, he pulls out a tattered book along with his notebook—well, a book that has been stuffed with his notes to keep them in some semblance of order—and refreshes his memory on what exactly he’s looking for. His morning notes add a reminder about keeping spirits in balance, that he shouldn’t use certain plants unless he’s aiming for supernatural warfare. Spirits are more sensitive, easier to change and manipulate than they were in life. More likely to lose themselves.

That particular train of thought gives him pause. He bites his lip.

Clearing his head, Stiles trudges out further and further, identifying and gathering things that he might want to use.

He also stops a few times, just to breathe. He lets the wind whisper through his fingers.

He pulls the stone from one of his bag’s zippered pockets and lets the weight settle in his hand. It tugs at him, like a cord connecting it to his chest, tells him to wander further north where he finds a deer caught in a rusted trap—probably long-forgotten by the hunter who had laid it there—and takes a few leaves out of his pack, rubbing them between his fingers until the oils are released, mixing together.

The animal calms at the scent and Stiles crouches beside her. The trap is old enough, rusted enough, maybe he can… He scrawls a symbol onto the metal and murmurs an incantation. The metal creaks, then dissolves away and Stiles lets out a hushed cry of victory so as not to spook the deer.

Luckily, she doesn’t run and he has time to clean her leg and rub down the wound with a salve he made up last week for just such an occasion. Well, an occasion with a _wound_ , not specifically for trapped deer.

He watches her go with triumph swelling in his chest at his unprecedented success. It’s not long after, however, that hunger starts leading him back toward the Hale house, his granola bar long gone.

Stiles brews a pot of tea and goes about making himself actual food. He had started cooking to help his dad, had only learned a little from his mom before she passed away, but the skill had definitely crossed over nicely with his magical endeavors. He’s never been one for praying, but since embracing his witchhood, he thanks nature for providing—and he’s become more sensitive to what he takes and what he consumes. It makes his magic feel stronger.

It doesn’t stop him from occasionally eating multiple pounds of curly fries.

After taking care of his needs, Stiles spends much of the day flitting between research, sorting through his new materials and fucking around on the internet. Once or twice he thinks he sees movement, but never anything substantial enough to mean anything. He talks anyway—about what he’s doing, about his dad, whatever comes to mind. He’s used to talking and he might be talking to himself, but it’s possible someone is listening, so he doesn’t feel too bad.

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” he says at one point, because it feels like the right thing to do. He is in someone else’s home, after all. It would be rude not to introduce himself.

Another meal comes and goes, night comes yet again, and Stiles heads up to his room.

Then the smell hits him.

This awful burning, smoldering ash kind of thing that makes him want to gag. Less than two days and already he’s about to burn the house down— _again_ —and he rushes downstairs to the kitchen, thinking he’s left the stove on and something has fallen on it or something. He’s not the most careful person in the world and he’s already thinking of a spell that might stop the fire from spreading when he notes that he can’t _see_ anything, no glowing embers or flickering flames, and he halts at the kitchen’s entranceway.

The figure is there again, the same one he had seen before. The man stands in perfect profile across from him, shoulders hunched. His clothes are in burnt tatters.

Stiles has enough time now to notice that he can see the shutters behind the man, through him. The man’s face is pained, lip curled where a fang creeps out.

“So the werewolf thing wasn’t just a rumor,” Stiles says before he stop himself. “Huh.” The smell is so strong now he knows it must be emanating from the specter and he wonders why it hadn’t been like this the previous night, but then he remembers the brief hint he’d gotten.

The ghost shakes, flickers, turns to him and Stiles swallows so he doesn’t choke on his tongue.

The guy is hurt and angry and, Stiles notes just a little shamefully, very handsome. “Nice to meet you and all, but could you maybe calm it down?”

The figure steps forward and, _yep_ , those are claws.

Stiles doesn’t take a step back, but he does curse under his breath.

Another step forward.

Stiles can see a snarl, knows that something’s missing.

And then everything is missing because the guy is just gone.

Stiles lets out a sigh, equals parts relief and disappointment, and shuffles upstairs. He wonders idly if Lydia would be having better luck since communicating with the dead is basically part of her job description, but he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking for help. Yet, at least.

He searches up pictures of the Hales with few usable results. Lens flare seems to keep them from ever being in clear view and it takes more digging to find a better picture of Derek Hale. And why there’s a lack of photos is a mystery, given how much the guy could’ve been a freaking _model_. The man in the picture looks a lot more lucid and a lot less lupine, even if his eyes are closed, but Stiles is certain it’s him. He had been a few years older than Stiles is now.

Stiles doesn’t fall asleep as easily tonight, his mind recreating the thing he’d seen in the kitchen, reconciling it with the man in the pictures.

~

The boy is a witch. Laura has never seen one before, but there’s no denying his magic. The orb of light following him his first night in the house had been, well, _enlightening_.

Derek had watched him for hours that night. Laura can’t feel the cold anymore, but she can see the boy’s discomfort, the way he braced himself before getting up and then, it was unmistakable that he’d _seen_ Derek that night. He had hesitated too long, spoken to Derek a couple of times as he went about getting himself water.

If she were alive, she would’ve been frightened of Derek, but this witch—and that explains the weird energy she’d sensed—apparently doesn’t scare that easily. He’s almost nonchalant about the whole thing, even slightly annoyed like being haunted and harrassed is the most minor of inconveniences. She fears _for_ him, but she can’t help being a little impressed, too.

When the day wears on, the boy leaves and returns back with all sorts of plants she has hazy memories of from hanging out near the house, from running with their pack in the preserve, she just aches for life. Or at least a _voice_. She can talk to Derek, but it’s useless. She listens with interest as the witch boy—who goes on to introduce himself as Stiles—talks about what he’s doing, something about an injured deer, his father the sheriff. He’s pretty enthusiastic and he gets really involved in some things, but restless at other times.

She likes him already.

And so, later, when Derek manifests more lost than usual, even these days, she hopes the boy stays away.

Which she guesses she had been ridiculous to even wish as Stiles comes running down only to stare at Derek. And proceeds to mention the werewolf rumor. Or, rather, the werewolf _fact_ that had gotten them all killed and that Derek takes all of the blame for. And he tells Derek to calm down.

Derek starts for him and Stiles doesn’t flinch but Laura roars and maybe that’s enough because Derek disappears instead of slashing into Stiles. Who goes back up to bed like everything is fine.

Does he have _no_ self-preservation instincts whatsoever?

There’s another question that occurs to Laura, however, that feels more pressing: If he can see Derek, why hasn’t he noticed _her_?


	3. put a fever inside me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: panic attacks, minor violence, minor (and slightly questionable) sexual content

His mind doesn’t stop turning, but consciousness gives way to restless sleep.

Stiles dreams about Derek.

He starts out like he looks in the pictures: whole, handsome, maybe a little shy. Stiles wouldn’t know that though. He never _knew_ Derek Hale.

This Derek is soft, is kind. A hint of a smile lights up his face and he positively shines. He looks like someone who could hold you, but, even more so, like someone who needs to be held.

The Derek in his dream starts sweet and fragile but the fragility shifts and so does Derek. Blunt human teeth turn sharp, ears lengthen to points, hair sprouts from the side of his face, and his eyes… His eyes burn _blue_. Stiles has never seen that before. Scott’s glow golden, so he’d always just thought—

Behind the blue, there’s a spark of memory and Stiles thinks he can see tree roots and a girl too young to die but he doesn’t get more before it closes off and remnants of humanity bleed away.

That deep, bitter scent of ash overwhelms him.

Derek doesn’t step slowly towards him. He _lunges_.

He pushes Stiles down and holds him there, teeth snapping and snarling and his claws digging into Stiles’s chest.

Stiles can’t fight back, can’t call on magic, can’t— He can’t _breathe_.

He can’t breathe.

His eyes pop open as the pressure continues and he starts gasping, hyperventilating, desperately trying to get air into his lungs as the anxiety builds until he feels as if he’s about to burst.

Finally, he’s released, and he rolls out of bed onto the floor, one hand and his knees to the carpet, his other hand clutching at his ribs as he wheezes. He feels a hand on his back and he knows it’s not there to hurt him, comfort seeping in.

All Stiles can think is he’s going to die. He’s going to die. He’s going to die.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.

He’s not going to die.

All of his energy is taut, his body aching from the previous pressure, his lungs burning, as he finally crashes through the fog of his panic attack.

The hand is still there, soothing him.

He gets enough air to speak and mutters a little, “Thanks,” but he’s breathing in large, stuttering breaths that take time to even out.

Stiles lets himself collapse fully onto the floor for a few minutes. It’s nice and cool on his now overheated skin so he pulls down a pillow from the bed. After a few more minutes, a blanket. His fingers drum almost mindlessly on the floor; he’s too tired to realize he’s trying to protect himself.

He sleeps there for a little over an hour before he wakes up again. He checks his phone to find out it’s still some ungodly early morning hour and he climbs back up into the bed.

And he fidgets. And checks his phone again.

And he closes his eyes only to open them about ten seconds later.

“Freaking poltergeists,” he mutters, then winces as his chest stings. “Thanks a lot, Derek.”

If he weren’t prone to panic attacks, it would be easier, but two nights of waking up and struggling to breathe are not good for the psyche.

Stiles scrunches up his face in frustration and throws himself out of bed so that he can pace, shake out his limbs to release the tension. Something clicks in his brain in the silence of four in the morning and Stiles sets his witchlight and digs through one of the boxes he hadn’t bothered unpacking yet.

Five minutes later and he thinks it’s a lost cause, so he dumps the box’s contents into the floor. He lifts the planchette victoriously, tongue caught between his teeth in his concentration. He finds the ouija board half caught under one of the box’s bottom flaps and has no idea how that happened, but he frees it and opens it up.

If his previous encounter and his dream are anything to go by, Derek’s the one who got on top of him.

Stiles blinks at his own mental wording and tries very hard to ignore the heat that pricks at him. He lets out a long breath and focuses on his previous thought process. Derek is aggressive, inhuman, handsome— He shuts it down there, thinks to the hand on his back when he’d been on the floor instead. The touch had been gentle and apologetic, but he severely doubts Derek is already sorry. That had to be someone else. Another Hale, probably, but he hasn’t seen any other ghosts around.

“Whoever you are, uh, hope you’re around to help me out with this.” He sits down cross-legged and sets the planchette on the spirit board. He glances around like someone might just appear to him. “So,” he starts, both hands on the little wooden piece, “is someone here?”

He feels the hand on his own, guiding him to _yes_.

“Alright. Good. Not just talkin’ to myself then.” He sniffs, but the burning smell is absent, so he determines. “Not Derek though. Probably for the best. Who are— What’s your name?”

The hand pushes again. _L-A-U-R-A_. Release.

“Laura,” Stiles says. “Laura Hale?” He’d seen the name in his research, thinks she might’ve been Derek’s sister, older.

_Yes_.

“Is it just you and Derek or are there others?” He shakes his head. “Wait, wait. Let me try that again. “Is it just you and Derek?”

_Yes_.

“So I’m totally right about it being Derek?”

He almost senses amusement as he’s pushed to _yes_ once again.

Stiles clears his throat. “Well, thanks, Laura. Again. I get panic attacks and when I— Yeah. Thanks.” He swallows. “Derek… He’s—” What is he even trying to ask? What is he _thinking_? “God, I’m gonna sound like an idiot, but I guess I just need to know. Is he okay?”

She makes him wait this time, but when the planchette slides over to _no_ , Stiles realizes he’d been holding his breath.

“Of course not.” He sits there a few more minutes, mind turning over the information he’d gotten. He thinks of another question, “I’ve seen Derek. Do you just… I mean, are you trying to hide from me?”

_No_.

And that’s something. He taps his fingers on the wood thoughtfully. “Would you want me to be able to see you?”

A pause. _Yes_.

Stiles lips quirk up. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

He extinguishes his witchlight in deference to the room’s overhead light, setting the whole room aglow in overly bright yellowed light.

Stiles grabs a few books and settles back into the floor. Grabs a few more books, scratches down notes and gnaws on one of his pens. He cross-references everything with the Internet.

Something about _perception_ resonates so he keeps on that thread until it’s a more solid lead. An idea of what he has to do slowly starts to form.

The next time he stands, however, the lack of sleep hits him.

He glances out the window to find the sun is already up. He hadn’t noticed the shifting of the light with his brain so caught up in research mode. He stretches and looks to the bed, then thinks better of it. Instead, he grabs semi-clean clothes and heads to the bathroom to take a shower.

He waits for the water to heat up and pulls off the thin t-shirt he’d slept in. His eyes widen.

Stiles brings his fingers to the claw marks on his chest, runs his own nails over the red scratches and lets out a sound that is totally _not_ the proper reaction to being wounded by the ghost of a feral werewolf. A splotchy flush starts in his cheeks and spreads down his neck, down to the marks. He’s always been bad at reacting to things in “normal” ways, but this is a bit far even for him. It doesn’t stop him from sliding a hand down past his flat stomach to palm his plumping cock through his boxers.

He finishes stripping and stares at the scratches again, blinks and can see Derek on him.

_Not okay_ , he reminds himself, but as he steps under the shower’s spray, he closes his eyes...and his hand drifts back to his cock. He bites his lip to stifle a groan. He doesn’t know whether it’s more for what Derek once looked like or the way he is now, wild and lost like he needs to be found… Just Derek. Derek on him, Derek touching him. It’s like he can picture him perfectly, like he had in the dream, in ways that make no sense and he shouldn’t be thinking. His hand speeds up on his length and he leans against the cool, smooth wall of the shower.

Behind his eyelids, a shadow moves, and Stiles pants out, “Derek.” He squeezes himself, pumps firmly from base to head and back again, thumbs the slit, twists and untwists his grip, but his other hand fingers his clawed flesh reverently. That’s apparently enough for him as the pressure tightens in his balls and he spills his release over his fist.

Stiles spends the rest of his shower wondering how the hell that happened and chastising himself. He’s not ashamed of what he likes, even things widely deemed unconventional, but he just _came_ thinking about a _dead guy_. A dead guy who was probably watching him the whole time. He bangs his head against the wall. And oh… Oh, he had said Derek’s _name_.

Wow. This is his new low, he thinks with embarrassment.

Derek is—was?—ridiculously good-looking, but, as a specter, he’s been nothing but threatening. Not that Stiles has actually felt threatened. Even during his panic attack, he hadn’t been panicking about _Derek_.

Burning with shame rather than desire, Stiles dries off and tugs on his clothes. He wants to mope, but moping in the house with two ghosts—one of which, again, he _jerked off to_ , and the other of which is that ghost’s sister—is a horrible idea so Stiles decides to grab food and wander out into the preserve again. He almost leaves without his perception notes, but he dashes back for them at the last second before heading off.

He doesn’t say goodbye this time.

Stiles spends a good hour lying on dirt and dried leaves trying to _not_ think. Which is difficult.

At least he hadn’t smelled that bitter burn while he’d been in the shower. He’s certain someone had been there, but he hasn’t been able to see Laura..and she had indicated that she and Derek were the only ghosts in the house.

So it was definitely Derek. And Derek hadn’t tried to attack him then.

It’s also the only time he’s seen or felt any ghostly _anything_ during daylight hours.

This gets him looking over his perception notes again as he shovels in some snacks. He scratches his head and looks down at his forearm. His dad has been reasonably cool about the witch stuff, but this isn’t going to earn him any points by any stretch of the imagination. He uses his phone to get himself instructions. With a pen, Stiles draws an approximation of what the runes will look like.

Yeah, his dad will _hate_ this. But Stiles is smiling, excited at trying a new kind of magic.

He spends another couple of hours wandering the woods. No injured deer today, but he enjoys listening to the birds and squirrels chitter, even if they’re wary of him.

When he gets back to the house, offering a sheepish wave should anyone be watching, he goes about mixing the ink. He retrieves a needle from the sewing kit he had packed but had never expected he’d need and boils it, humming a litany of curses as he does, scrubbing his arm in further preparation. He can see the runes clearly in his mind.

He carefully secures the sanitized needle to the back of a pencil and chants as he sinks the ink into his skin.

He has to wipe the blood away a few times as he works, but he’s concentrated enough on doing it right that it’s not until he’s finished and the blood _really_ oozes up again that he promptly faints.

Stiles comes to on the kitchen floor, temple aching where he must’ve smacked it on the tile. He sits up and tentatively touches the ache. No blood there, at least. He braces himself to look at his arm.

There’s a washcloth on the floor beside him, bloodied, and Stiles almost laughs. “Thanks, Laura.” Against the voice of reason in his head, he pokes at the skin around his fresh tattoo. Sore, but not too bad. “It should take effect pretty soon here,” he tells her. Well, so he hopes.

He holds a hand over the inked runes and thinks about how they work, thinks about them healing. It won’t be instantaneous, but it should speed up the process. He has a thinner salve that should do the trick to protect it until it’s fully healed. He goes to his room to find it and rub it over the runes but he’s only halfway through when he glances up.

“Holy shit.”

Laura doesn’t look like Derek except in her opacity, or lack thereof. Really being able to look at her in the light, he can see she lacks color. She looks human though, longer hair draping over her shoulders. Stiles knows she died in the fire, too, but her clothes aren’t worn or tattered, not singed like Derek’s. It tells him more in personal experience about the way spirits manifest than their brief ouija session had. She’s dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, even a jacket. A necklace with three interlocking spirals hangs over her breastbone and he thinks it’s called a triskelion but he’s not sure. Her eyes—and they may not _quite_ be the eyes of the living—swallow depths.

“Laura. Uh, god. Okay.” After seeing Derek in all his lupine-esque glory and seeing Laura looking so very normal, Stiles can’t help asking, “Were you a wolf, too?”

Laura nods. He thinks she mouths something, too, but it’s all distorted. Indecipherable. Just trying to understand makes his head throb.

He holds up a hand. “No talking, I guess. Not on your end.” He hesitates, hands flailing. “You don’t— Is it okay if I talk to you?”

Laura opens her mouth like she wants to try talking about _that_ , but she stops, simply nods.

Stiles nods in return. “Sorry about earlier,” he says quickly and she looks puzzled, so he shakes his head. “I— You know what? It’s probably better you don’t know.” Laura looks concerned and Stiles gives her a smile that he hopes will alleviate any suspicions she might have.

Stiles talks at her for a while, happy to see someone willing to listen. He walks as he talks, gesturing out, and he catches Laura’s mouth quirking into a smile a few times, like she’s amused. Idly, he itches at his chest, ignoring the spark that even touching the scratches brings despite his recent shame. Laura’s gaze follows the movement and Stiles quickly halts the movement. But it does bring up the concept of _touch_.

“Can you just, like, touch things? Interact with objects and the living whenever you want?”

Laura frowns, shakes her head. She opens her mouth and closes it again, then puts out her hand.

“You want me to— Okay.” Stiles tries to put his own hand on hers, but it goes through. It feels strange, like mist but less moist. “Oh. Then how…?”

Laura’s hand makes a stop gesture and looks very serious for a moment, then offers her hand again.

This time, Stiles makes contact. “Whoa.” He tries to assess the sensation of it. It’s definitely like touching a hand, but too soft, lacking warmth. Apparently she can’t keep herself like that forever, because his hand slips through again after a minute. “So it takes effort.” She nods in the affirmative, again when he asks, “But easier at night?” He takes a second, then adds, “Like, thanks again then for...everything.” He offers a gentler, more genuine smile now, one not meant to hide his embarrassment.

Laura looks away, like there’s something across the room and Stiles stutters out a “what” as he turns.

Derek.

Derek seems more solid now, so he thinks the tattoo must not just add a layer of perception but boost what he already had. Derek’s clothes may be smudged and blackened in places, but he’s not as wolfy as he was. His teeth, just visible, are still too sharp and even in his spectral form, Stiles can see glints of bright blue in his irises. No horrible smell.

“Holy shit,” he says, just as he had when he’d seen Laura. His tone is different with Derek though, like he’s afraid of spooking him. That’s right: Stiles Stilinski is afraid of scaring a ghost.

It’s obvious that Derek is less aware. He’s unearthly still—ha!—but when Stiles glances back at Laura, he can practically _feel_ Derek moving, too. Given that, it shouldn’t surprise him to see that Derek is closer as he looks up at him again, but he startled all the same.

“ _Oh_ my god.” He clutches his chest, then proceeds to roll his eyes. “Can you just chill out a sec? I mean, you already maimed me, but I’m not going anywhere.” He tugs down the collar of his shirt to show Derek and Derek’s gaze follows the movement with keen, animal eyes.

He brings up his hand like he wants to touch and Stiles swallows, takes a step back. And it has nothing to do with a fear that Derek will hurt him but instead what other reactions his body currently sets in motion. And— And _Laura_ is in the room, too.

No.

His confusing feelings concerning Derek are things he’s not ready to face up to, to anyone. But especially Laura.

Derek hunches, moves away.

“Hey, uh, it’s okay,” Stiles says. “Derek?”

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of recognition at the name.

The Hales disappear soon after and Stiles feels the draw of sleep but forces himself to take care of his basic needs first.

He barely has time to consider all he accomplished and the reason his gut is gnawing at him before sleep takes hold.

~

Laura doesn’t know what happens when she finds the boy in crisis. She’s seen panic attacks before, but she’s never had one herself. Desperately, she tries to find a way to help and as her hand goes to his back, it makes contact.

She rubs little circles into his lower back like she had done for her siblings, imbues any positive thoughts she can into him. 

Stiles actually _thanks_ her.

And then goes back to sleep on the floor. Maybe she has other reasons to worry for the boy than her brother.

She drifts for a while but eventually she comes back and finds Stiles setting up a ouija board and she remembers being about twelve years old at a friend’s birthday party. Someone had gotten out a ouija board and Laura, knowing that at least certain parts of the paranormal were real, had been somewhat nervous at the prospect of trying to contact the dead.

She could laugh at herself now as she mentally cheers at the possibility of communication. She’s also glad it’s still dark.

Laura takes a seat across from Stiles and answers his questions, her hand on his.

She had forgotten how nice it felt to have someone say her name until Stiles says it now. _Laura_. She misses that and the way Stiles says it isn’t with trepidation or confusion, just affirms her existence.

He asks about Derek and it hurts, but when he asks about seeing her, she has to squash down hope. She’s here for Derek, but if she loses herself, he’ll surely be lost for good. And there have been times over the years where she’s nearly let herself go, lonely and heartbroken over Derek’s condition, feeling like she’ll never communicate again.

So she says yes and Stiles says, “I’ll see what I can do,” like there’s a solution. Are all witches this surprising or just him?

He starts doing research and she reads over his shoulder for a while, but he flits easily from one thing to another and she gives up after a time. The sun is coming up and she feels herself tiring.

Laura no longer requires sleep, but she still gets drained sometimes, lets herself fall in and out of existence. She feels it when Stiles leaves though, so she seeks Derek out, suspicious of what had happened the night before.

Derek doesn’t speak to her, of course. He hasn’t spoken in years, as far as she can tell, and she doubts that he’s talking to himself.

She rarely sees him without a hint of his wolf present. It had always been just below the surface with them, having been born werewolves, but it’s usually the human side they show. She longs to see Derek’s human side again, but she knows why it’s hidden away.

It isn’t just death that’s taken him.

This Derek paces and she lets him without any attempt at contact. Hours pass this way until he stops suddenly and the door opens.

She hadn’t heard him so she doesn’t know how Derek had known. Whereas once she could hear something miles away, she finds now that everything is dulled. Within the house, she’s aware—and maybe that says something, maybe they’re more a part of it than they realize, tied to their den and their death—but outside… It’s practically a mystery these days.

Which is another thing about Stiles: he brings the woods back with him.

This time, when Stiles returns, he’s serious and determined and a little scattered but that’s getting to be usual.

When he starts stabbing a _needle_ into his _arm_ , Laura gets concerned, but it becomes apparent that he must have reason for it. She doesn’t understand the runes, but she’s certain they must have _some_ meaning.

He finishes and faints and Laura laughs once she ascertains that, yeah, he’s going to be okay. It had been the sight of the blood, she thinks. “ _A witch afraid of blood_ ,” she says, for no one, and she focuses on grabbing a washcloth from beside the sink and dipping it into the recently boiled but by now lukewarm water. She figures it’s clean enough, all things considered, and cleans up the tattoo.

It silvers when she touches it and Laura stares. He didn’t really go through this for _her_ , right?

He wakes up and it becomes clear very quickly that he did. After the initial shock, he asks, “Were you a wolf, too?”

Laura nods. “ _We were born wolves_ ,” she tells him. “ _Like our mom_.”

Stiles stops her and she realizes that he can’t hear her, can’t figure out what she’s saying even though she’s sure he wants to; he’s definitely the curious type.

Still, a conversation, no matter how mostly one-sided, with someone who can _see_ her? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since she died, maybe even her whole life. She likes watching Stiles meander, physically and mentally, while he talks and touching his hand takes work but it’s rewarding. She doesn’t understand his apology, but it’s sweet the way he thanks her again.

And then there’s Derek.

Stiles doesn’t show her, but she gets from what he says and how Derek reacts that Derek had gotten him. It explains the panic attack.

It _doesn’t_ explain why Derek tries to touch Stiles, but maybe the witch boy has finally smartened up because he actually backs away. He’s twitchy though, which doesn’t exactly scream “terrified” in Laura’s book. She wishes she could joke with Derek about it, but Derek looks rejected, hurt.

Laura knows it’s the animal side of his brain. She’s just not as certain what the animal side is thinking.

Derek’s attention stays on Stiles and Stiles says Derek and, maybe it’s like it was for her. Maybe hearing someone else say his name is more important than she’d realized.

Maybe it had to be someone _living_ , much as the thought hurts the protective older sister, alpha-adjacent part of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER: Derek semi-attacks Stiles in his sleep, Stiles is inexplicably aroused by the marks Derek has left and masturbates while thinking about Derek and is ashamed of this afterward (the reasoning for it happening will be explained as we go forward), Stiles tattoos himself


	4. and how we don't speak enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild, slightly questionable sexual content

Stiles wakes from a particularly _pleasant_ dream that immediately fades from his mind. A chill in the air has his nipples pert where he’s thrown off his blankets.

He’s achingly hard and he tries to reach down to touch himself, to alleviate the pressure in any way he can, but he finds his wrists held down above his head. A shuddering breath skates out of him.

“Der- _ek_.” He squeaks the second syllable as Derek’s form appears over him and he feels the weight of a knee between his thighs. Ghosts are stronger at night, he thinks, but what should be a warning is a promise instead and he shifts, bucks, finds not-enough friction.

Derek isn’t looking at his face. The hand that isn’t preventing his own from moving is on his chest, roaming over the scratches, catching on the bud of his nipple, sending rippling currents through Stiles’s entire body.

This is sadly the closest thing to sex with another person that Stiles has ever had and he blames it on this fact that, despite the situation, he’s leaking against his boxers.

Derek’s nose dips to Stiles’s throat and Stiles squirms as teeth graze his neck and—

Derek disappears while Stiles comes without ever getting a hand on himself.

His face burning, Stiles idly thinks that Derek has smelled woodsy and… _nice_.

Stiles shucks off his boxers and leans over the side of the bed to find a shirt to clean himself off. He tells himself it’s laziness and not the desire for a repeat performance that keeps him from finding new underwear, leaving himself bare in the now warmer room as he falls back asleep.

Waking up naked and a little filthy probably shouldn’t lead to a mental replay that has him fingering himself through another orgasm. It _really, really_ shouldn’t since claws had marked him up and clawed fingers aren’t meant to be pressed into him until he whimpers.

Not that… Not that Stiles had been thinking about _Derek’s_ fingers in him or anything. He’s just young and he’s got sexual energy to burn and he does it a lot without ever thinking of hot ghosts—or, or _anyone_ , alright? Can’t a guy masturbate in peace?

Today is apparently the day for looking around the house and then spending so long making breakfast that it is most decidedly lunch. He keeps alert in case he should see anyone, not that the current lack of ghosts keeps him from talking aloud to himself.

He practices spells that he’s done before, like the one that makes his hand glow. He still has no idea if it’s supposed to do anything but provide a flashlight, but it’s cool. He likes his witchlight better. He also grinds up some of the plants he’d gathered, mixes them together or with stuff he already had and bottles it up in glass vials that he keeps in the “witch kit” that creeps Scott out.

He texts Scott, but he doesn’t talk about most of what he’s found. He’d rather see Scott’s shocked face when Stiles comes back with a tattoo since he’d shamed Scott for his. He doesn’t feel much like a hypocrite because Scott’s tattoo is, in his opinion, stupid, and he kind of hates it, but to each their own. The dusty couch under him creaks as he kicks his feet up onto the arm and swivels into a reclined position.

He mentions to Scott that there are actual spirits in the house, the deer he’d rescued, and a reminder about making sure his dad is eating right.

Scott doesn’t ask many questions, and probably doesn’t have many since the witch thing is super mysterious to him. He’s a werewolf, but he’s only been a werewolf for somewhere over two years and, given the history of werewolves, that’s not long to learn about his new supernatural identity. Even if Stiles had done meticulous research on lycanthropy and had started his own studies into the occult in the meantime.

Scott suggests coming to the house and Stiles rejects it, just like he had before he came here. He can go back and forth, that’s fine, but Stiles had been adamant that no one else come to the Hale house. As a witch, he thinks he can deal with ghosts and, okay, he’ll admit it, maybe it’s different than he had thought it would be, but. He can’t trust how things will work out if he doesn’t keep the space isolated. Derek could hurt someone, especially someone who can’t see him.

Even werewolves can’t see _ghosts_.

And Stiles has the runes. Nevermind that he could see Derek before.

The sunlight is turning orange and hazy before Laura appears and Stiles pretends he hadn’t been half-napping, swiping at the drool in the corner of his mouth.

She’s peering at his potions curiously and Stiles starts explaining their properties. Some of the time, it’s more like “and hopefully since I combined that root with a potion that’s supposed to cause horrible burning stomach pain, it’ll act as a truth serum, cool, right?” Laura doesn’t look particularly confident in all of his explanations, but Stiles pouts at her and she waves him off like it’s fine.

She proceeds to watch him make dinner at which point he says, “I really worry about my dad. I usually try to make him dinner, check up on him.” He’s doesn’t look up from where he’s cutting up vegetables. “He’s probably fine but what if he’s not, you know? I’m not ready to lose him.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder and sniffles. He hadn’t realized how emotional he’d been getting and he leans into the touch. Through the fabric of his shirt, it’s harder to tell she’s not alive. He’s not sure how it will work, but he briefly sets his hand on hers in acknowledgement. She lets go after a moment and Stiles can’t look at her right now, ducking his head as he shoves a pan into the oven to roast the cauliflower and carrots he’s got going.

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t think you can actually...eat. Is that rude? Should I not have pointed that out?” He shrugs and grins, which Laura returns.

Stiles settles onto the couch with his laptop as he eats.

“You like Netflix? Oh. Oh my god, right. Netflix was barely around when you were alive. What was that even _like_?” He tethers his phone’s data to his laptop. “I guess I should actually figure out WiFi or...maybe not? Generally they send someone out…” He huffs a sigh.

Laura’s eyes widen as he begins scrolling through the options and Stiles lets her help pick what to watch. They end up with an older movie that Stiles hasn’t seen since he was a kid but Laura seems happy to be rewatching if the way she smiles and gestures is anything to go by. The credits roll and Stiles stops it from auto-playing a trailer and he waits before he asks, “So Derek.” In his peripheral vision, he sees Laura listening attentively. “Was he always so _feral_? I mean, at least since he died?”

Laura shakes her head and Stiles nods in understanding.

He hums. “This was nice, by the way. I never thought I would be Netflix and chilling literally because ghosts are _chilly_.” He smirks a little. “Not that I’ve ever Netflix and chilled with anyone.” At Laura’s look, he laughs, a bit too nervous as he considers just who he’d like to Netflix and chill _with_. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles ignores the way Laura continues to stare at him questioningly.

“I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow. I’m going to see my dad, plus Scott and Lydia if Scott’s not too caught up on Allison.” He pulls out his phone. “Oh, I can show you.” After a minute, he adds, “Scott’s a wolf, too. And Lydia’s a banshee—not to mention a _genius_.” He talks about them for a while before he finds himself yawning. “I wish you could tell me about your life,” he murmurs, sounding disappointed. “Things probably would’ve been different if there was a whole family of werewolves around in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles tells her goodnight, waits until he’s in bed, lets out an anxious-but-strangely-excited, “Goodnight, Derek.”

~

Derek is in Stiles’s room when Laura finds him.

She knows Stiles is puttering around downstairs, so it’s odd to find Derek here, in what has definitely become Stiles’s space even though it’s only been a few days.

She’s surprised as Derek lets her approach. He doesn’t thrash around or anything. He looks meek again, like he had the night before when he had reached to touch Stiles. It hurts her heart to see him like this still, but she has to admit that his continued cowing gives her hope that she was right.

Maybe something in Derek has snapped and he’s started feeling again. There are so many horrible things to feel and it appears, as often happens, those are the emotions that have gotten to Derek. Laura wants to comfort him and she’s now wondering if it could be possible.

If she can get Derek to accept her comfort, it would be a huge step back in the right direction. In the back of her mind, she knows if he heals, they’ll be able to move on. She doesn’t exactly relish the thought of leaving right this moment and she wouldn’t want to leave without telling Stiles goodbye. She’s only known him for the briefest period of time, but he tattooed himself to see her. That’s a lot of commitment.

She’d like Derek closer to better though. To at least be her brother again.

Derek lets her take a seat beside him on the floor, across from the bed. She doesn’t reach out to him, but the way his shoulders relax a little tells her that he might appreciate her company.

“ _Derek_ ,” she says. “ _It’s me, Laura._ ” A pause. “ _Well, I’m here for you._ ”

No reaction to the words.

They sit in silence then until she decides to find Stiles and Derek goes off to wherever Derek goes.

Stiles is sleeping on the couch. It’s pretty cute, especially as he tries to pretend that he wasn’t. He’s got all sorts of things going on and he tells her all about them. She hopes that he’s careful because a lot of it sounds more dangerous than he seems to believe.

She’s sort of amazed to see a kid his age who eats so healthy. She definitely hadn’t been the same, even if her heightened taste buds made junk food near-inedible at times.

She comforts him when she talks about his dad and he’s crying and she knows he doesn’t know he is by the surprise that crosses his features after. He’s experienced loss that he doesn’t tell her about and that’s okay. She _can’t_ tell him about her own loss, but she feels a sympathetic ache all the same.

Then he introduces her to something he calls _Netflix_. Like that’s a real, casual word to be thrown around. Why he asks for her input, she has no idea, but it’s fun to see something so oddly familiar. She chooses a movie she knows the family had hated, if only because she had forced them to watch it so many times. A fond nostalgia over the movie and her loved ones creeps up over her. She thinks Derek might be watching them, but she doesn’t want to make him leave. Maybe he remembers, too.

The pictures Stiles shares of his father—the sheriff, he reminds her, not that she’d wouldn’t know with how often the man appears in uniform—are sweet. He doesn’t look to be in poor health, but Stiles had already admitted it was mostly his own paranoia. He looks just a little bit like her dad, but it’s mostly the expressions: a man who puts up with a lot from his children.

And Laura’s father had the unfortunate experience of many a “You’re not my alpha!” outburst from his children before they’d come to understand the true importance of an alpha’s mate in the pack. They should’ve respected him anyway as a parent, but Laura suspects the wolf in them made them particularly stubborn in youth.

Stiles also shows her pictures of a boy with a crooked jaw. He’d been bitten and that’s how Stiles had been introduced to the supernatural. Stiles says he’s like a brother and she smiles about his obvious fondness for Scott. He blushes when he talks about Lydia though, explaining that he had had a crush on her throughout elementary and middle school because she was always just so _smart_. Lydia is a banshee and Laura thinks, yet again, that although she’s well-versed on werewolves, she doesn’t know as much as she should about the paranormal. She’d known of coyotes, of wendigos, of other shifters, but she’s still learning.

Stiles had let slip that Scott doesn’t know all that much about being a wolf, so when he tells her that it would’ve been nice to have the Hales around, she can’t help but agree. So many things would’ve been different if it hadn’t been for the Argents.

She wishes she could talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER: Derek touches Stiles (in a non-sexual manner) without his consent but Stiles has sexual feelings/reactions to it


	5. feeling oh so far from home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to leave the house today with Stiles! And see living people!
> 
> (I don't think any warnings apply, but let me know if I'm wrong.)

The encounter with Derek is mild this time, even more brief than the last. Stiles wants to reach out to touch him, but Derek is gone too quickly and Stiles grasps at air.

He wills himself back to sleep despite his raging boner and may or may not unconsciously rut himself against the mattress. He’s not owning up to it either way.

Once he’s actually up, he gets ready, a bag filled with _less witch stuff than normal_ slung over his shoulder. He shouldn’t need any of it to see his dad and friends, but he can’t be completely unprepared. After all, he’s gone to the movies and ended up fending off omega werewolves before the previews have ended.

Stiles has never actually lived alone and since he has no idea what time ghosts decide to show up, Stiles waffles on whether or not to write a note. He nearly doesn’t, but then he’s scribbling a message for Laura anyway.

She shows up as he’s leaving, anyway, waving goodbye as he does the same. Laura and Derek are in some ways more around than his dad has been half the time. He can barely remember the last few movies he’d managed to watch with his dad, just the two of them hanging out at home. His mind starts on this and then hits about fifty other tangents before he decides to stop at the store.

Stiles picks up groceries before stopping by his dad’s house and he checks for any obvious evidence of unhealthy eating. He only finds one sodium-filled TV dinner and it’s better than he had expected. He straightens out a few things and heads over to the station.

He realizes very quickly that rolling up the sleeves of his flannel had been a bad idea.

“You deferred college for this?” his dad asks incredulously, using his grip to turn Stiles’s arm to get a better look.

Stiles is far too pleased by the way the runes shimmer. “I’m an adult who makes my own choices?” he tries.

“You’re an eighteen-year-old who tattooed himself with a sewing needle. Am I right?” He gives Stiles a _look_ , but Stiles doesn’t cow and a second later, Noah rolls his eyes in fond amusement. “I hope you have some sort of cover up for that when we go to see your grandmother for Thanksgiving. I’ll never hear the end of it…”

“This was _necessary_ , Dad. I _need_ it.”

Noah sucks in a breath and takes the dive, eyebrows knitting together. “Why?”

“Because otherwise I can’t see the ghosts.”

His dad scratches his head. “Right. So there _are_ ghosts in the Hale house?” He keeps his voice a little quieter. Parrish may be of the supernatural inclination, but no one else in the precinct is, and after the whole _incident_ with Haigh last year, Noah has been much more strict about keeping his mouth shut.

It feels a little bit weird talking about them when they aren’t there, like he’s spilling someone else’s secrets. At the same time, everyone knows the Hale house is supposedly haunted. What harm does he do by confirming it to his father? He still hesitates. “Yeah, uh. Two ghosts. Laura and Derek Hale.”

Stiles feels absolutely no surprise when his dad starts pulling out the old reports on the fire.

Noah starts to explain but Stiles’s gaze immediately catches on something in Derek’s file. “What’s that?” But he’s already taking the folder. “Unsubstantiated—” He huffs. “Statutory rape charge falls through, rapist gets off scott free, burns down house half a decade later.”

“We never found any evidence of who did it. Why would you say it was her?” His father is frowning, but Stiles can see it all in his head, almost like he was meant to.

Stiles points to the name listed. “Argent.”

Noah glances between the page and Stiles’s face and Stiles’s seriousness must be enough to keep him from outright questioning the assumption. “And the Argents are,” he pauses, sucks his teeth thoughtfully, “werewolf hunters?”

Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. “ _Yes_.”

Noah dips his head in closer, takes his pitch down another notch. “So the Hales were werewolves?”

 _Were_ resonates more than it should and Stiles swallows, bobs his head in an uneven nod. “I don’t know about all of them, but Derek and Laura, yeah. Still kind of are.” The last part is murmured under his breath, makes him itch at the scabbed over scratches unconsciously before very purposefully dropping his hands. His fingers twitch and he wrings them together.

“If you can find evidence that Kate Argent—and, is she related to Allison?—did this…” His dad is making that “don’t withhold information from me” face that never actually works on Stiles.

Unfortunately, Stiles can already feel a tightness in his chest about not being able to turn over evidence since there is none, other than the circumstantial.

Stiles doesn’t have _psychic powers_ or _clairvoyance_ or anything like that, but there’s a feeling in his gut that makes him think he’s right. In fact, it feels like there’s no other option. Kate Argent killed the Hales and it probably had something to do with taking advantage of seventeen-year-old Derek.

No wonder the spirit is so messed up.

Stiles proceeds to nag his father about how he’s taking care of himself with Stiles out of the house, assures Noah that he thinks his efforts will be worth the gap year before college, regale him with tales of saving deer, and listening to his dad complain about various goings-on.

Then, he goes to see Scott.

And he quickly realizes that keeping secrets from Scott is a lot harder when they’re actually face to face.

“Ew,” Scott says. “Did you just call a _ghost_ hot?”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth. He wonders if it would make it creepier to bring up the pictures he could find of Derek that he had—shamefully—saved. He ends up squabbling and trying to save himself with, “Well, I mean objectively. Like, you can’t not see it. He’s a good-looking dude.” He clears his throat. “And he was all up in my face.” _Don’t mention in your bed_ , he reminds himself, already vividly picturing it in his mind. He winces as he scrapes off a scab because, _of course_ , he’s touching his chest again like just thinking about Derek draws him to the physical reminder.

Scott’s nose wrinkles. “Stiles, are you bleeding?” His gaze goes to Stiles’s hands and Stiles cringes.

“Uh. Not really? Just picked at— Oh. Okay. It’s not—” But Scott is batting his hands away and pulling down the collar of his shirt.

“Those— Those are _claw marks_ ,” Scott says.

Stiles tugs his shirt back into place. “Mmmhm.” He goes for nonchalant, but his face heats all the same.

“Why do you have claw marks on your chest?” Scott’s brows are furrowed, expression contorted into the ever-familiar look of concern.

Again with the waffling. “I… _may have_ had a run in with one of the werewolves. Ghosts. Ghost wolves.” He shrugs. “I mean, I don’t exactly know what happened since I was sleeping at the time, but he hasn’t done it again so I think it’s probably...fine?” Stiles smiles at Scott, but Scott looks horrified.

“ _Fine_?! Stiles, you have _claw marks_ on your chest! _Claw marks_!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So you keep saying, Scotty. I think I know.”

“This is a big deal!” Scott throws his hands out. “D-Derek,” and he stumbles over the name, never having said it before, trying to mentally confirm that it’s correct, “He _hurt_ you!” Scott seems about two seconds from wolfing out and Stiles starts rubbing at a bracelet on his wrist, a similar compound to what he’d used with the deer.

The touch activates the scent and Stiles speaks in a low, easy tone. “Whoa. It’s okay. I’m fine, Scott. I have everything under control.”

Scott can’t help but shrink back slightly at the bracelet’s effect. He looks deeply unhappy and he’s definitely troubled, but he’s no longer about to pop claws and fangs. Stiles wishes he had known all this when Scott first got turned—it would’ve made the first couple of full moons and everything in between a hell of a lot more manageable.

“I’m fine,” Stiles repeats, holding up his hands in placation.

Scott huffs. “You should let me come over there. I can stay with you. I’ll protect you.”

“Scott,” and Stiles sounds just a fraction like a parent speaking to a small child, “you wouldn’t even be able to see them.” He holds up his arm. “This is the only reason I can. Well, except. No. _This_ ,” he emphasizes, hoping Scott hasn’t caught another near-slip. He tilts his head, takes on an air of teasing amusement. “Besides, if you were there, who would protect Allison?”

Scott’s whole demeanor disappears for a moment, eyes glazing over and smile slotting into place at the thought of _Allison_. Stiles waits it out, knowing that when Scott’s focus returns— “Wait, is that a _tattoo_?”

And there it is. “Yeah.” He grins.

Scott listens in skeptical fascination to the story of how he had tattooed himself and then they play video games until Allison texts.

“Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?” But Scott isn’t looking at him, typing out a message with way too many emoji.

Stiles trudges forward anyway. “Does Allison have a relative named Kate, by any chance?” He knows she must, but it’s easier to get an answer this way than start digging through records. Which he’ll probably do anyway, but, hey, a start is a start.

“Her aunt,” Scott answers, frowning and actually glancing in his direction. “Why?”

“I’m just trying to figure some things out,” Stiles answers vaguely. “Have you met her?”

“Once. When Allison and I first started dating”—god, Stiles hopes this will be a short story—“well, I hoped we were dating, it was after that time we made out”—oh, _god_ —“her aunt is the one that made me stay for dinner.”

If Stiles had werewolf strength, he’d probably snap the PS4 controller still in his hand into _bits_. “Yeah? Is she around now?”

Scott seems to get that something is wrong, but not exactly what. “I don’t think so?”

The question is audible and Stiles sighs. “Be careful, Scott. Okay? Be very, _very_ careful.”

They part ways with Stiles a little more worried for his best friend than before, but he supposes Scott feels the same. And maybe reasonably so, but Stiles’s feelings about Derek are too conflicted for fear to win out.

Stiles grabs dinner with Lydia, who is back for a long weekend, as she’d told him she would be.

“How’s school going?” he asks, twirling marinara-coated spaghetti on his fork.

“Good,” she says, and Stiles knows she’s purposely being short because last time she’d gone on at length about her studies and how certain theories were rather pedestrian but she understood the need to lay groundwork for those who hadn’t been as dedicated to the field. “I’d ask about the witch stuff,” and she twirls her hand toward him is going, “but I’m more interested in the way death lingers around you. It doesn’t make me want to scream, but there’s,” and her gaze sharpens, “ _something_.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles starts, although he’s shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and is still chewing, “I live in a house with two ghosts.” He swallows and smears a hand over his mouth. “So I’m kinda, like, _touched by death_ ,” he waves his hands, “all the time.”

Lydia raises an inquisitive eyebrow. She’s always been far too perceptive for her own good. Or, rather, for _Stiles’s_ good. “In what way?”

Something about her tone pinkens his cheeks and Stiles tries to stutter out an answer that sounds reasonable. “Uh. L-like. Um. Laura wiped the blood off of my tattoo when I passed out.”

Lydia tilts her head, shiny strawberry blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. She’s beautiful, even when her expression is so incredulous it makes Stiles pull at his collar like it’s choking him, which only alights her gaze upon the marks. “So, Stiles,” she says, “in what way have you been,” her face scrunches up almost mockingly, “ _touched_ by death?”

“I have no idea what you could possibly be implying and I— I—” He stops. “Look, there’s something weird going on, alright? Everything in the research says _I_ shouldn’t be able to see ghosts. Normally. It’s why I did this,” and he gestures to his forearm with his fork. “But I could see one of ’em. Before.”

At this, Lydia sits back, not with disinterest but rather the opposite. “You could see one of the ghosts?” she asks, then adjusts tactics. “Only one?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah.” He gestures like Derek is standing there, like he can see the ghost clearly in his mind’s eye, and he really _can_. “First night I saw him as this, like, flickering apparition. You know, the kind you see in scary movies. But after this,” and he gestures to the scratches this time, not the tattoo, “it’s like I could see him clearer.” He huffs a sigh. “I dunno, Lyds.”

Lydia looks at him consideringly. He can see thoughts and ideas weaving themselves together in that brilliant mind of hers. “You saw a ghost,” she finally states.

“I saw a ghost,” he affirms.

They don’t talk about the ghosts after that, but Stiles is certain that Lydia is still theorizing, even as they part ways.

He drops back by his dad’s and writes out a note telling him there’s dinner in the fridge and grabs his own groceries that he’d left there for storage over the course of the day.

Seeing his loved ones had been so normal that the drive back to the Hale house is somewhat foreboding, and yet he’s drawn to it now all the same. He _wants_ to go back.

It’s dark, late, when he pushes open the door with a creak. “Honeys, I’m home!”

He’s met by a sudden hush, all of the air leaving the room. Then, there’s a whispering, but he can’t make out the words no matter how hard he listens. He puts away the food, sporadically pausing to listen.

Stiles wanders up to his bedroom and finds the two Hales there and, again, the whispering ceases.

The ghosts disappear.

It’s the single most unsettling thing to have happened to Stiles in the haunted Hale house.

And it’s not even because he’s frightened of spooky ghosts, but what they might be saying that they don’t want him to know about.

Are they gossiping? About _him_?

God, he does _not_ want Laura to know about his increasingly weird thing with Derek.

The fuller crescent of the moon shines through his bedroom window 

~

Laura is excited by her new abilities to wave Stiles off.

And it delights her to no end that Stiles had left her a _note_ , like she matters.

Laura spends some time perusing his open spellbooks and wondering if she could get that Netflix thing to work on his laptop but decides that even trying is probably too far an invasion of Stiles’s privacy. Looking at his notes might be, too, but she’s really got nothing else to do.

At least, until she hears Derek’s voice.

“ _Laura_?”

She must be imagining things, more gone than she’d thought, because Derek doesn’t speak. If there’s one consistent lately it’s that _Derek doesn’t speak_.

But she has to respond, hallucination or not. “ _Derek?_ ”

“ _Laura_.”

She whirls around until she finds him. “ _Oh my god. Derek._ ” She wants to throw her arms around him, but she stops herself. Instead, she comes up to him tentatively, and waits for him to look at her.

His eyes are clearer now. Her brother still exists behind them.

Laura reaches out for Derek’s hand and he almost feels warm to the touch. But maybe that’s just a sense-memory from before. She examines his fingernails and they _are_ fingernails, not claws. She holds his hand and she feels like a child again.

She thinks Derek does, too.

Derek is coming back to himself, but she can see his mind knitting back together slowly, like their wounds did when they were alive. He’s _healing_ , although she’s not sure why or how.

“ _The boy…_ ” he starts slowly, struggling to form coherent thoughts, complete sentences. “ _I hurt him._ ”

Laura still hasn’t seen the actual wounds, but she remembers Stiles showing something to Derek. And she remembers Stiles’s panic attack. “ _He’s okay,_ ” she assures, but Derek’s hand thrashes out of her grasp.

“ _I hurt him, I hurt him._ ”

“ _You didn’t know what you were doing,_ ” Laura tells him, reaches out for him again.

Derek shudders, slips away.

Just as time slips away as Laura searches for him.

She finally finds him again, moping in Stiles’s bedroom. Although she had known the space was once Derek’s, he had never been as drawn to it before.

In fact, now she wonders why Stiles was. Why did Stiles choose Derek’s old bedroom as his own?

He ignores the other bedrooms like they aren’t even there, which makes sense given the amount of stuff he has. He’s only one human, witch though he may be.

Laura is tired in that way that just continuing to exist—“exist”—drains her spirit, but sits down across from Derek.

He’s shaking.

“ _Come on, Der,_ ” she says too-lightly, putting on an old, teasing affectation. “ _Stay with me, huh? You wouldn’t want to make your sister suffer. I could’ve been your alpha._ ”

It’s a painstakingly slow process waiting for Derek to unfurl, open up to her, but she still has her patience. Especially for Derek.

“ _They’re all gone,_ ” he says. “ _Because I was stupid. Our mother, our alpha. Dad. Uncle—_ ”

“ _Hey, hey, hey,_ ” Laura soothes. “ _It wasn’t your fault._ ” The statement brings only incredulity so she continues, “ _We all should’ve paid more attention._ ” He opens his mouth to rebuff, but Laura idly flips a page in one of Stiles’s notebooks.

Derek stops. “ _He’s a witch._ ”

Laura glances up at him, trying not to show how ecstatic she is at the change of subject. She nods, gestures to the papers and paraphernalia surrounding them.

“ _What’s— What’s his name?_ ”

Curiouser and curiouser, Laura straightens up. “ _Stiles._ ”

Derek frowns, but she sees him mouthing the word like he’s trying to figure it out.

“ _I think it’s a nickname. His last name is Stilinski._ ”

“ _Stiles Stilinski._ ”

Again, Laura nods.

“ _What’s he like?_ ”

Pleased to have something nice to explain, Laura tells Derek what she knows.

Their conversation varies between Stiles and everything else, Laura guiding them back when things start to go astray. It’s distracting enough not to hear the car coming, but then the door opens.

“Honeys, I’m home!”

And it’s Stiles’s voice. He sounds refreshed, even if his voice is tinged with that bittersweet edge that comes from seeing and leaving loved ones.

“ _What does he know about us?_ ” Derek asks.

All day she’s been wondering, but now she really can actually surmise how little he remembers when he’s gone feral, the wolf making his decisions. “ _He, um. He knows we were werewolves. He knows who we are—at least by name._ ”

Derek actually speaks again. “ _I think I heard him say my name._ ”

Stiles opens the bedroom door and Laura knows they’re caught.

As if on cue, they fade out together.

It’s nice to do something with her younger brother.


	6. getting you stuck in between my teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild sexual implications in reaction to violence (as usual)

Stiles doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night, but upon another inspection in the bathroom mirror, he guesses he hadn’t been alone. He takes a picture of his neck and chest for supernatural posterity before looking closer.

The bruising on his collarbone, however, doesn’t seem to have been made by a hand, but rather a mouth. Deeper indents of teeth mark the edges, enough to break skin where fangs might lie. Stiles glares down at his erection in betrayal. “We shouldn’t be encouraging this,” he tells his dick.

It doesn’t agree and Stiles is too quickly swayed by its argument of _but hot_ to hesitate.

He spends too long under the spray of hot water, imagining Derek all over him. Any voice telling him he shouldn’t is drowned out by the one telling him he _must_.

Skin pink from the heat of the shower, Stiles has a towel wrapped around his waist and his phone in his hand as he zooms in on the photo he’d taken earlier. “Geez, I look like I’ve been— Ah!”

Stiles flails and nearly drops his phone when he sees Derek. He clutches a hand to his chest. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Derek makes like he’s talking and Stiles winces at the sound. It’s so _close_ to being intelligible that Stiles’s ears strain to make sense of it. He stops, instead gesturing to Stiles, eyebrows knitting together in question.

“You— You want to touch it?”

Derek’s heavy gaze meets his and Stiles swallows.

“Okay,” Stiles allows slowly, because this Derek is trying to talk, is bothering to ask permission. He’s almost without the will to stop Derek from touching him now.

And Derek’s hand is warmer than Laura’s, more solid than Laura’s. His touch is a pleasant weight on Stiles’s collarbone and chest. Derek’s fingertips dance over the bite and lower to the scratches, sending sparks zinging up to Stiles’s brain and down to everywhere else. He has a vague notion, a memory of a dream: he’s laughing, he’s groaning, his fingers tangle in Derek’s hair as Derek’s mouth latches on.

Stiles forcibly jostles the thought out of his head. Derek’s expression is curious with something unreadable behind it and Stiles narrows his eyes. He knows it’s defensiveness rising up and taking over because something in him is screaming to keep Derek close as he takes a step away.

Derek’s hand hovers, then falls. He looks as disappointed as Stiles feels when the contact is broken and somewhere sympathy worms its way in.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, shrugs it off because he knows Derek can’t answer. “What is this?” he rephrases, gesturing between them.

Derek frowns, shakes his head.

Huffing a harsh breath from his nose, Stiles nods. “Great. So neither of us has any idea why you keep marking me up,” lower, to himself as he looks away and scrubs a hand over his head, “or why I like it so much.”

Stiles can see the raise of Derek’s eyebrow in his peripheral vision and he shoots Derek a glare.

“Is it, like, a werewolf thing?” Stiles tries.

Again, Derek looks just as baffled as he is.

“And I’m not having weird dreams about Laura.”

Derek opens his mouth and Stiles holds up a hand. “Please don’t. I get enough headaches without incoherent ghost whisperings in my head.”

Derek looks like he wants to touch again, but he shudders and his teeth lengthen and Stiles tilts his head because he’s way more interested in that than he should be.

“So we’re not totally at the long talk phase in our relationship. Got it.”

Certain that Derek will soon disappear, Stiles takes a moment to examine him and categorize some of what he experiences. Derek is dressed in a henley and jeans now, casual. It’s almost difficult to reconcile it with the cornered, angry animal he’d seen in the kitchen a few nights ago. A clean, earthy, cedar scent clings to the air around him, fresh and sharp like the early morning.

At least Derek doesn’t just blink out of existence this time; he turns and walks away, fading out when he hits the wall.

“Oh, god,” Stiles lets out. He can still feel Derek’s hand on him, can see and smell him when he closes his eyes.

Stiles checks for ghosts about six times over before he actually takes off the towel to dress himself.

He then meanders downstairs to make himself toast for breakfast.

Stiles doesn’t make notes or take notes out into the woods today. He brings barely anything with him and tells himself he’s just going to let it all be.

Whatever that means.

Stiles just walks.

And walks and walks.

He listens, he observes, he senses.

He doesn’t stop.

Most of the trees are green year-round, their needles dark and shiny. He brushes his fingertips over them and they whisper their greetings in the supple bend of their branches and the resilience of their spirits.

Others have dried and lost their leaves, looking for all the world like death has overtaken them. The dry crackle of a snapping twig tells him that this is not the end, that they will return and flourish when the time is right. Although they seem gone, there is hope yet.

There are no clouds in the sky but the season is near-tangible in the currents of the wind. The oppressive heat of summer has moved on, but the chill of winter has not yet set in. There’s an overwhelming sense of autumn surrounding him and tiny birds flit from tree to tree keeping their distance while larger birds and squirrels shuffle past, offer him the occasional cheep or chirp or chitter.

Stiles loses himself to attune with the natural world and by the time he comes back, he realizes that he doesn’t know how far out he’s gone or which direction leads him back to the house. The trees are thicker here and he can’t make out the stars clearly, doesn’t know which way he’d gone originally.

He probably should’ve brought the stone, could’ve used it now to pull him back toward the house.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells himself, the breeze and the night air becoming unpleasant as darkness has fully settled around him. As if to remind him how negligent he’s been in even starker detail, his stomach grasps at the empty state he’d left it in. One piece of toast is not enough to sustain a full day of wandering and he realizes that, whether or not he’s casting _spells_ , he’s calling on magic to ingratiate himself into his environment.

It turns out one can feel sustained as well as drained.

Gesturing, a witchlight forms—a little bigger and brighter when he thinks these used to be werewolf territory, were the same woods in which Scott had been bitten by an alpha they’d never found—and Stiles chews his bottom lip.

He needs something to make this easier. Something that’ll take him back.

He presses fingertips hard into the already bruised flesh of his bite and concentrates on the feeling, on the source of the mark.

The light bobs a couple of times, then meanders out and Stiles follows.

He throws himself inside once he gets the door open and ignores the urge to sleep in favor of eating first.

Maybe he’s less of an idiot than he thought.

Laura stops in to check on him, but Stiles is mostly focused on his day, on what he might’ve gleaned about how the world works and how he fits into it.

He probably still knows next to nothing, but the low-frequency exertion of magic is humming under his skin like a warm, buzzing old lightbulb. Like when he’d left the porchlight on all night the first time his dad had left him home alone instead of with the McCalls after his mother had died.

The cold that had prickled him outside is forgotten by the time he crawls into bed.

As is the research he probably should’ve done on werewolves.

~

Laura finds Derek pacing restlessly around the house.

It’s not the fidgety, flailing pace she’s seen Stiles adopt a few times now, but a slow, tight swirling of tension.

She waits until he stops, until he stands in front of her, twitching.

Laura had always been his confidant and she sees it in his posturing now. The need to tell his big sister what has him torn up, even if he knows it’ll cast him in the wrong light. Even if it’ll incriminate him.

It’s unfortunate that she hadn’t been there when Kate had initially happened, had been busy with college and too caught up in being an _adult_ —which seems laughable thinking back on her nineteen-year-old self—to see that something was wrong with her brother. To see that Derek was getting attention in all the wrong ways until it was too late.

They’d filed the report and Kate had disappeared, but...not for good.

Laura brushes the back of her hand over Derek’s cheek and waits for his gaze to meet hers. “ _What’s wrong, Der?_ ”

Derek shuffles, his forehead creased.

She waits.

“ _I bit him,_ ” Derek admits helplessly.

“ _You bit him,_ ” Laura repeats.

“ _Like I couldn’t help myself. Like I had no control._ ” His nostrils flare as he struggles with his thoughts and Laura cups the back of his neck, like their mother used to. “ _I could kill him._ ” Derek is wrecked over the thought.

“ _You… You **bit** him,_ ” Laura says again, still trying to understand.

“ _I saw him in the light._ ” And he gestures up to the location of the mark.

Laura tilts her head. “ _You’ve never been good with people,_ ” she teases, but then lets it turn more serious, “ _and it’s only gotten worse since we died. You can’t stand anyone being here in our territory, like we have the right to call anything our territory anymore. You’ve always just scared them off before._ ”

“ _He should be scared._ ”

Laughing, Laura shrugs. “ _You’d think. But that boy is made of something else, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the magic._ ”

“ _I’ve hurt him. Scratched him. Bitten him._ ” It’s clear that Derek is frightened of himself. “ _And I didn’t mean to._ ”

“ _You’ve left marks._ ”

Derek frowns, upset etched into his features, bleeding into his eyes.

“ _It’s your wolf, isn’t it?_ ” Laura asks quietly. 

“ _My wolf…_ ” Derek starts.

“ _I wonder,_ ” and it doesn’t occur to her not to say it until the words leave her lips, “ _if your wolf is trying to hurt him or to claim him._ ”

“ _We’re dead,_ ” Derek points out, deadpan, and it comes with an arched, incredulous brow.

Laura is thoughtful. “ _Sometimes I wonder if your wolf knows that._ ”

Much as her curiosity is piqued, Laura has no idea what to actually make of the information she’s gathered.

Stiles comes back looking exhausted and he barely acknowledges her. It hurts a little, but she’s alright with it.


	7. my ghost, where'd you go?

Stiles wakes up in the night, but it’s an absence he feels, not a presence.

He shivers not with cold but with something else, something he can’t place or name.

Without thinking, he presses his hand to the bite and something in him soothes, allows him to slip back into slumber.

His dreams are too messy to remember. Derek is untouchable in them.

It’s a struggle to pull himself out of bed in the late morning. He rubs at his eyes, but the action does nothing of use, only leaves them even more irritated than they’d been.

Sluggishly, he takes care of his needs, but it’s a long while before it occurs to him to eat breakfast.

Maybe that’s why he’s so lethargic. He’d barely eaten the day before and he hasn’t eaten yet today.

Stiles doesn’t feel hungry though.

He forces himself to eat an apple, but just the effort of eating is too much and he gives up halfway through.

He doesn’t know how much he walked around yesterday so it could just be that. Stiles played lacrosse through most of his high school career, but it could be the exercise. He’d also used a fair amount of magic.

Could be the time of year.

Could be that he’s getting sick.

Whatever it is, Stiles is just feeling off.

He rubs idly at the runes on his arm. They sporadically itch and he’s been applying a thin salve when he remembers to. A bit of excess ink flakes off and he resists the urge to pick at it.

Even picking at his new tattoo holds little interest for him right now.

He doesn’t feel like going anywhere or doing anything.

“Hey,” he greets.

It’s Laura. She looks concerned and Stiles tries to be alert, some level of amiable.

“Tired today,” he tells her with a shrug. “Wanna watch Netflix?”

Stiles doesn’t care, lets Laura help him choose a sitcom that he stares at but tunes out.

A couple of times Laura gets his attention, gestures toward the kitchen, and Stiles half heartedly eats a piece of toast for her benefit.

It’s barely dusk and Stiles has done nothing with his day, but that’s apparently enough.

He drags himself to bed after bidding Laura goodnight, assures her he just needs rest at her insistent look.

Stiles collapses into bed.

~

It’s immediately apparent that something is wrong with Stiles, but when he shrugs it off, Laura tries to leave it be. At least for a bit.

Stiles has generally been good about taking care of himself and eating healthy and all that, but the only thing she gets him to take down is toast and he looks like he’s just about to give up on it with each and every bite.

Everyone has lazy days but Stiles has been a ball of energy or at least enthusiasm since his arrival. She didn’t think his brain had anything remotely resembling an off switch...until today.

She knows Derek is avoiding Stiles and she knows why, but he won’t even talk to her about Stiles and she’s frustrated. Even if it’s only petty, worried whining, she’d like some sort of outlet. And Derek could be that if he tried, but no.

A day of watching Stiles pretend to watch television shows is rather disheartening to the side of her that wants to keep this kid safe.

She has new, _different_ concerns about Derek to think about along with concerns about her new person and Laura wants to laugh at having all this post-mortem stress. At least it grounds her, because there’s no way she can slip off into madness or nothingness with these two in their current states.

Tomorrow, she tells herself, everything will be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Stiles alright???


	8. if he's a ghost, then i can be a phantom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: temporary character death? (???)

Stiles thrashes around in his sleep, then takes on an unnatural stillness.

His breathing is shallow and his eyes flicker open.

He’s met with darkness.

His eyes close.

Someone calls his name.

Nothingness.

Nothing—

~

Usually Laura notices Stiles making breakfast, moving around the house, but this morning the house meets her only with continued silence.

She waits just a little while longer, trying to give Stiles some sense of privacy, before her worry takes over and she climbs the stairs and walks toward the bedroom with a growing sense of dread. With each step, she wonders if there was something she could’ve done yesterday. If now is too late.

Laura tries to remind herself that Stiles is human, that humans get sick, but the house is telling her something she can’t understand—or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t _want_ to.

Derek is in the room and he growls at her—a low, threatening sound—when she approaches.

He’s less again, his wolf in control. It wants to keep her from Stiles.

Derek wants to keep her from Stiles.

Is it because he wants to hurt him or protect him?

“ _Can I see him?_ ” she asks.

Derek glances back at Stiles and his body crumples in on itself as he takes in the sight. He lets out a whine.

His hackles rise when she steps closer and she doesn’t know if he could damage her, but now isn’t the time to find out.

Laura lets her own wolf rise, lets the shift take over, and she snaps her teeth.

Still wary, Derek backs off in deference to her, but he doesn’t go far.

Without the growling, Laura can hear nothing. She can’t hear breathing or a heartbeat and she knows that she should with him this close, inside the house. Laura would never have described Stiles as particularly tan, but especially with his days out in the Preserve, he’d had some color to him.

He’s so pale now that his skin is nearly translucent. His moles stick out in sharp relief to the whiteness of his cheek, but everything about him is dim and dull.

Movement in her peripheral vision reveals Derek, looking like he’s itching to pull her away but the pain in him holds him back. He’s feeling as useless as she is.

Slowly, Laura puts a hand over Stiles’s chest and puts her all into feeling for signs of life.

Like this, there’s a weak, sluggish heartbeat.

Stiles is, what? Eighteen? Nineteen at most? Eighteen-year-olds don’t just suddenly drop dead, right?

But...Laura doesn’t know anything about magic. What if he did something that made him sick? What if he took one of those weird potions he was showing her the other day? What if—

She needs to stop freaking out.

Stiles had seemed… Well, _rational_ and _reasonable_ both feel like overstatements considering how much Stiles disregards danger and only seems to hang out with werewolves, banshees, and now ghosts. But still, like a smart kid.

She doesn’t think this has something he’s done to himself through irresponsible witchcraft, so it must be something else.

“ _Stiles,_ ” she says, because she can’t help it.

Stiles eyelids twitch and, if Laura were human, _she’d_ be sick: He heard her.

If he heard her— If he heard her, is it too late?

He has a phone. She could call for help! She just needs to find the thing and she does and… And it _won’t work_?

Laura’s fingers tap uselessly at the touch screen. Apparently her touch isn’t enough.

Laura runs down the stairs, throws open the door, and tries to run out.

As expected, she can’t.

She pushes against the barrier, against the cage that was once their family’s den.

She tries to slide through space, disappear and appear again outside. Or miles away. Or—

Not that any of it would do much good.

Perhaps with a seriously concentrated amount of effort, she would be able to write something down, but there’s no telling someone would even read, much less take it seriously.

And it’s a moot point because she _can’t_ go anywhere, no matter how much she might want to.

Laura doesn’t know how so much of the day has gone, but she allows herself to return to Stiles’s bedroom. She can at least be beside him should he awaken, should there be anything she _can_ do.

Initially, Laura doesn’t see any change.

In the low light, it’s hard to tell, but when Laura realizes what’s happening to him, everything seems to freeze.

He isn’t just pale anymore. His face, his arms, she catches glimpses of light _through_ them.

Like he isn’t solid.

Like he isn’t alive.

Like he’s a _ghost_.

Have they done this to him? Has their influence over the house doomed him?

Derek is on the brink of giving up, his mind boiled down to bare, hopeless instinct, and she nearly stops him before deciding that there’s no point.

Derek’s clawed hand comes to rest on Stiles’s and, in a matter of seconds, Stiles lets out a little breath.

It’s just barely audible and Laura wonders if it was even real or a trick of her imagination, but Stiles twitches. His thumb reaches up to return Derek’s touch and Laura has no idea what’s happened but she could honestly sob in relief at seeing any sign of life.

Derek, too, has paused, awareness seeping in that something has changed and that Stiles’s situation is perhaps not as dire as it had been a moment ago. His claws begin to retract and he grasps Stiles’s hand only for Stiles’s fingers to curl around his in a loose grip.

Another moment passes as Laura holds her metaphorical breath before Stiles makes a noise that Laura can’t quantify as anything other something of pleasure.

It’s darker now, but Laura thinks Stiles is starting to live again, that his flesh is returning to flesh and not just Stiles-shaped ephemera.

Laura had touched him earlier. She knows she did.

But Derek… Derek apparently made all the difference. One touch of Derek’s hand to Stiles’s and Stiles is coming back to life as if waking from a dream and not the nightmare they’ve just witnessed as he had fallen further away from the land of the living and further into their world of the dead.

Just one touch from Derek.

Apparently her touch wasn’t enough.


	9. something to hold onto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual content

_Derek_.

Behind heavy eyelids, Stiles sees a wolf with glowing blue eyes. He falls to his hands and knees, crawls to the wolf and wraps his arms around its neck, but soft fur gives way and Stiles finds human flesh underneath.

Derek’s arms are sluggish, tentative, but they wrap around Stiles and he shivers before he feels warm all over, like the sun has burst in his chest. “ _Der—_ ”

“—Ek,” Stiles finishes, and slowly, disconcertingly, he swims his way back up to the surface of consciousness. His fingers jerk and he realizes Derek’s hand is on his own.

Derek is sitting on the bed with him and Stiles has no idea how this happened, but he begins to register his surroundings.

Behind Derek, Laura looks relieved, but that means she’d been worried. Laura doesn’t just creep on him while he’s sleeping like Derek, so Stiles doesn’t know what to think. He remembers being cold, being alone. “What happened?” he asks, his voice croaking with sleep and disuse. He swallows down the lump in his throat and vaguely processes that he’s still holding hands with Derek and pulls his hand away.

Immediately, he feels light-headed, dizzy, and Derek nudges his knuckles into the side of Stiles’s hand and it dissipates.

“The hell.” Stiles lets himself lean into the touch though, lets vitality return to him.

As life returns, something else pulls at him, too, and Stiles would love to know why his body thinks its options are now death or sex.

“Could you give us a sec?” he says to Laura and is relieved as she steps through the wall.

Leaving him alone with Derek.

Stiles chews his bottom lip. They’ve never been this close and calm before and something tugs at him to get closer. He shifts his hand a bit until they’re making more contact again, then even more as he slots his fingers between Derek’s.

Derek looks at their hands, at Stiles’s face, but his gaze flickers to where the bite is hidden under Stiles’s flimsy t-shirt.

“Do you feel it, too?” Stiles asks.

“ _Yeah,_ ” Derek says, then nods to make sure Stiles has understood.

Stiles sits up suddenly, jarring their joined hands. “‘Yeah,’” he says, like it’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Derek’s voice. “Say something else.” His eyes are bright and Derek raises his eyebrows at him. “Please.”

“ _I feel it, too._ ” Derek’s mental wheels are spinning and Stiles can see that Derek isn’t used to speaking, even if he’d been doing it with Laura recently. Then again, in the short time he’s been awake, Derek has seemed more and more in control, like there’d been that lack and loss again.

“Holy shit.” Stiles scoots closer without thinking. “I can hear you.”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek says and Stiles’s whole body shudders, as if it’s the most intimate thing that has ever happened between them and, really, it _is_.

“Seriously?” Stiles mutters to himself, but then he squeezes Derek’s hand and Derek is looking at him again and Stiles ends up saying, “You wanna see it?”

At the hunted look Derek shoots him, Stiles frees his hand to pull his shirt off over his head. He’s normally shy about about even _changing_ in front of other people, but he thinks they’re already beyond any comfort level he’s reached with anyone but his dad or Scott. And he definitely doesn’t think about his dad or Scott the way he thinks about Derek.

The loss of contact is felt immediately and Stiles hears Derek whimper, which does weird things to him.

But then Derek’s fingertips caress the bitemark like they had two days earlier and Stiles’s hips rise of their own volition. This time, Stiles places his hand over Derek’s, keeps it there.

“God, Derek,” Stiles breathes. There’s a cool whisper over his bared skin and Stiles looks at Derek with heavy-lidded eyes. “What are you doing to me?”

“ _Marking you,_ ” Derek whispers, edging on a growl. He leans in and fits his mouth over the bite.

Stiles groans, leans back to make room for Derek to maneuver on top of him. He grabs at Derek’s face pulls him up so that Stiles can press their mouths together messily and Stiles bucks up, starts kicking his legs until he’s managed to get the covers out from between them.

Derek’s clothes feel far too real and Stiles hates it because he wants _skin_ , ghost flesh still better than nothing. Derek’s own hips dip down and they grind against each other and Stiles _aches_ and— How does Derek taste so _good_?

Stiles kisses him and he’s never kissed anyone before, not like this, and tight heat builds swiftly until he’s losing his breath, clutching at Derek as he comes.

He tries to even himself out, anchor himself down, and Derek’s mouth is back on his collarbone, teeth scraping, sucking an even darker bruise, and Stiles laughs. He laughs like he had in the dream.

This is so much better than the dream because he can pretend Derek is actually here, a living being with him.

Derek pulls back, and behind his gaze, he’s confused. Concerned. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this either, but he can’t help it any more than Stiles can.

“What’s happening to us?” Stiles asks, but he runs an uncertain hand down Derek’s back.

Derek doesn’t answer.

Stiles sighs, tucks Derek in against him, and lets sleep take over.

He wakes up alone, hungrier than he’s been in his life.

When he checks his phone, he finds that he’s lost an entire day. It makes sense.

What doesn’t make sense is why he hadn’t tried to actually _talk_ to Derek earlier. Well, Stiles allows, it does make a certain kind of sense.

The kind of sense where apparently he finds Derek irresistible and loses all higher brain function as soon as they’re touching. And _all_ brain function if they’re not.

What is his life?

Stiles staggers to the kitchen and eats two apples, makes himself a tofu scramble, fries up a few potatoes.

He doesn’t quite shovel in all of it before his stomach starts telling him to slow down, but a day without eating had caught up to him. Eating now only makes fresh exhaustion hit him like a brick wall.

He knows he’ll get over it, as long as he’s really okay again. Who’s to know whether he’s okay or what okay even _means_ anymore.

Stiles stares at the wall and Laura appears before him. “Hey.”

Laura inclines her head in greeting and Stiles can tell that she’s inspecting him.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “I guess I’m fine now.”

She doesn’t look terribly convinced.

“I wanna talk,” Stiles says. “Really.” And now that his hunger is sated, he realizes that he’s truly in no state to be interacting with anyone. He is _uncomfortably_ filthy. “Right after I take a shower.”

Laura watches him with suspicious interest and Stiles flushes, runs up to the bathroom and turns on the water.

He barely glances at his reflection before deciding that’s too dangerous a path to travel at this particular juncture and climbs into the shower stall.

Stiles feels a presence behind him and he feels himself drawn back, lets out a shuddering sigh of relief when Derek’s chest presses against him.

“Please tell me you’re naked,” Stiles mutters and then he’s turning around, winding his arms around Derek’s neck. He rests his forehead against Derek’s and finds that he’s able to form coherent thoughts for once. The warm spray of water hits his back in a steady rhythm.

“ _Had to see you,_ ” Derek says and Stiles nods against him.

“Yeah. That part I get. It’s the rest that’s a complete fucking mystery.” Derek’s hands find his waist. “What happened to me?” he asks, hoping this time he’ll get an answer.

Derek shakes his head, whines. “ _I don’t know,_ ” he murmurs. “ _You were…_ ” And he shakes like the thought is too much for him.

“Alright, big guy,” Stiles whispers. “It’s okay.”

“ _I didn’t want Laura near you but I couldn’t figure out what to do._ ”

“And then you did.”

“ _I had to trust the instinct._ ”

“Do your instincts normally tell you to touch teenagers you’ve never met before?” He’s trying for light, but it fails miserably.

Derek flinches and Stiles thinks back to the file, to _Kate Argent_ , and his heart clenches.

“Eighteen,” he assures. “And, apparently, very down for the touching.” He pulls back so he can see Derek’s face, study it. Derek is so handsome he can’t be real and Stiles supposes, with an even more heart-wrenching twang, he kind of _isn’t_. Not anymore.

Then, to free the thought, he tilts his head back and wets his hair, unlatches himself from Derek’s neck only for Derek to beat him to his goal, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

Derek’s fingers massage into his scalp and Derek presses his nose just under Stiles’s jaw.

Needless to say, his shower last much longer than it needs to. Although, _somehow_ , it never turns explicitly sexual.

Considering just about every other shower he’s had in this house, it’s a miracle.

Just having Derek there, touching him, was so necessary, so good.

Derek doesn’t follow when Stiles descends the stairs again, feeling fresher and more alert—and also like he could eat again.

It’s close enough to lunchtime, he thinks, and makes a sandwich on whole-grain bread, hoping his dad had done the same for his own lunch.

Stiles drops down on the couch beside Laura, who had, in fact, waited, and gives her a nod of acknowledgement. “I missed an entire day.”

Laura looks upset, her scent, which usually Stiles doesn’t notice, turns to something sharp and sour.

“But I’m okay now,” Stiles assures. “I swear.” He plucks at his shirt to emphasize how corporeal he is.

She shoots him a glare, the kind that he knows well. The kind of glare that says “I was legitimately worried about you, asshole” that his dad, Scott, and Lydia have all perfected.

“You called my name,” Stiles says. “I heard it. Can you— Can you try to say something now?”

The second Laura’s mouth opens, Stiles has to squeeze his eyes shut, shoves his hands over his ears.

“Okay. Apparently that doesn’t work. But if I could hear you last night…” Stiles is scared, even as the words come. He stands, has to move. He walks to the table and picks at where it’s chipped. “I was dead.”

Laura nods.

Stiles staggers a step back, leans heavily against the table. “I was dead,” he repeats. “And when Derek touched my hand, I came back.”

Again, she nods. This time, she seems more thoughtful.

“I mean, I knew, but it’s still so… And _he_ doesn’t get it, so that’s not particularly helpful.” Stiles stares up at the ceiling. “I didn’t come here to die or to—” He stops himself, swallows.

There’s something in the way Laura is looking at him though, telling him that something he said had resonated.

Stiles thinks back, processes. “I don’t know why or— or _how_ , but I can hear him still. Only after I came back.” Somehow it makes sense that he can hear Derek, but he probably shouldn’t be able to hear Derek. He hadn’t really considered how weird it was earlier, but Derek had just been so... _alive_.

They stare at each other and Stiles wishes Laura could speak. She seems desperate to say something, but he knows she can’t, and she ends up storming off like it’s too frustrating to stay there, unable and impotent.

Dwelling on his own recent demise, Stiles calls his dad and manages to catch him off-shift. They talk for a good hour, but it’s all about normal stuff: his dad’s health, happenings at the station. He wants to ask about Kate, but not right now.

Finally, his dad asks, _“So why did you really call?”_

Stiles curls up in the spot he’s taken on the couch. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”

His dad huffs, like Stiles is ridiculous, and Stiles starts to smile.

“Hey! I mean it.”

The call goes on just a little longer and, after he hangs up, Stiles idly wonders where the ghosts have gone, whether this thing with Derek will start getting better or worse.

The day finishes without another sighting.

~

Laura doesn’t know what _exactly_ is going on between Derek and Stiles, but an idea starts to solidify as the pieces come together.

Stiles needs Derek’s touch. Stiles can hear Derek’s voice.

Laura wants to scream, but she can’t. She wants to talk about the fairytales their cousins used to tell about finding your true mate and how the connection was so deep that it’s loss could kill you.

Laura wants to tell Stiles all this, but she has no way to do so.

She lets herself give in to her frustration and leave him be. Maybe she can talk sense into Derek.

Unfortunately, she loses track of time, and by the time she’s honing in on Derek, she hears a noise telling her to stay far, far away.

And it’s not a growl.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is tagged "slow burn" and "fuck or die" but it's really been "slow burn fuck or die." (Or, as Anefi said on this chapter, "HOLD HANDS OR DIE.")


	10. i came here so you'd come for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: **sexual content** ;)
> 
> (see end notes if you are concerned about consent and have gotten this far)

It’s like he’s been struck by lightning.

Stiles lies in bed, but he can’t sleep. He’s consumed by a thought, a need. And it’s something he’s never even done before, nor does he know if it’s possible. He’s thought about it though. Many times now, and maybe it’s because he needs his fix, but, _god_.

He’d be embarrassed if he had any brain left to think.

Instead, he bites his lip and his breath comes out in short puffs and the only thing he can think about is how good it would be to have Derek on him, but not just that. Derek _in_ him.

Stiles finds the lube and slicks two fingers, pressing them into his body under the false security of his bedsheets.

This time, he’s certain Derek will come to him and his suspicion is confirmed.

He should say something, he should ask, he should—

He _should_ , but the only words that come out of his mouth are, “Derek,” and, “please.”

Derek pushes aside the covers and Stiles makes room for him, spreads his legs because his body knows what it wants and it wants _Derek_.

Stiles wants Derek, too.

Ineffectively, Stiles pushes at Derek’s clothes and he doesn’t know if it’s his own magic or Derek’s that works, leaving Derek bare between his legs. Stiles is starting to feel alright again as Derek’s arm settles in next to his, a hand on his chest grounding him. His mind starts allowing thoughts to knit together even though his blood has mostly gone to his cock and he starts wriggling unconsciously for more.

This time, Derek gives it to him. Derek’s eyes as they rove over him aren’t empty. It may be some instinctual drive between them, but they’re both present.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Stiles whispers, voice scraping out of him the way Derek’s blunt fingernails scrape down his chest, over old marks, over his stomach. He starts babbling. “I’ve never done anything. With anyone. I don’t even know if we _can_ —”

Stiles is cut off by his own groan as Derek’s fingers move ever-lower, two pushing into him with just a bit of burn to the stretch. Derek’s gaze moves from his hand to Stiles’s face.

“Can you— I mean—” Stiles’s eyes flicker to Derek’s lower body and he bites back a noise because yes, it very much seems that Derek can.

“ _Why…_ ” Derek starts, pulling his fingers free. “ _What are we doing?_ ” He tucks his face into the crook of Stiles’s neck. “ _I want to claim you._ ”

Stiles shakes his head. “I have no idea but that’s the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He bucks his hips and his cock bobs against his stomach, sizzles as it bumps pleasingly against Derek’s. He dares to pull Derek down against him and Derek complies, one of Stiles’s legs hiking up, hooking over Derek’s hip in the hopes of making his enthusiasm _extremely_ clear.

Derek’s lips and teeth graze up from Stiles’s throat to his jaw until finally their mouths meet and Stiles’s grasp is more desperate now. Just yesterday, this had been enough to bring him off—nothing else needed—but now he needs more. _Needsneedsneeds_.

Like he’ll _die_ , and, fuck, maybe he _will_.

“I need you in me,” Stiles murmurs into Derek’s mouth, legs and hips insistent. He can feel himself leaking against Derek’s abs. 

Derek makes a sound, neither human nor wolf, but it seems the pull is just as strong for him, because he adjusts their bodies, angling Stiles’s ass up towards him, and then sinks in.

Stiles has never had sex before and he had known something like this would hurt, but he’s so overwhelmed by how right it feels he almost can’t notice anything else. Hell, it’s not even the pleasure of it, but something else. Something more. Like they’re meant to be connected to each other, part of one another, like Derek is a piece of him that’s been missing his whole life and he’s finally whole.

The way Derek just stops, caught in the feeling, too, tells Stiles it’s mutual.

But then he forgets about what all that might mean because holy _shit_. There’s someone inside him. Derek’s inside him and he breathes, “Move.”

Derek fucks into him and, for a moment, Stiles can only hold on for dear life. He digs his fingers into that broad, muscled back and mouths at Derek’s shoulder, muffles his moaning until Derek buries his face into the crux of throat and collarbone.

Stiles rocks as best he can and he thinks they find a rhythm as Derek thrusts into him even deeper when they move together just right. “Derek.”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek must say, but somehow it sounds more like mine as he bites him and Stiles is freefalling with barely any friction to his cock, but that’s nothing new for them. He’s tipping over the edge and into the abyss with only Derek to anchor him.

He holds onto Derek with everything he has left and Derek fucks into him one last time before he tenses, unlatches his teeth from Stiles’s neck and lathes his tongue over the bite soothingly. After a moment, he pulls out and Stiles is left with a strange emptiness.

Stiles should likely be more concerned about all this biting than he is, but he mostly just thinks, and thus voices, “I just had sex. With a ghost. Werewolf. Werewolf ghost.” He puffs out a long, loud sigh. “And it was _awesome_.”

Stiles has never seen such incredulity communicated solely through eyebrows.

“What?” Stiles grins because he’s giddy with some sort of messed up, sex-fueled adrenaline.

“ _Aren’t you worried?_ ” Derek asks, and the incredulity is subdued now. There’s a fear there that makes Stiles swallow down his happiness and try to take in the situation.

Deflating, Stiles nods. “Of course I am, but what I am supposed to do about it right now?” Defeat swallows his features. “Kinda ruining the afterglow,” he mumbles, collapses back against his pillow. His gaze focuses on a pinpoint far off, like he can see straight through to the sky.

He feels the backs of Derek’s fingers on his cheek. “ _You’re right._ ” Stiles looks at him and Derek is staring back. It’s too dark for him to make out much.

“I wanna see you,” Stiles says, conjuring a witchlight. He fears that the illusion will be ruined, that he’ll be able to see right through Derek’s body like he has before and just the thought makes him feel sick, but then he finds that nothing shines through. Derek’s face is scruffy, and Stiles drags his fingers through Derek’s beard. He can’t quite make out the color of Derek’s eyes.

“ _You have magic,_ ” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “Yep.” He maneuvers his arm up and the runes glow a soft blue. “How I can see Laura.”

“ _And me?_ ”

Stiles’s smile falters and he hesitates. He swallows down the lump in his throat. His witchlight shifts from white to a hazy purple and he shakes his head to dislodge his new anxiety.

Derek doesn’t repeat the question.

The second night—or, likely, _morning_ —in a row, Stiles falls asleep with Derek.

Again, he wakes up cold and alone. And not the kind of cold that Derek had brought before.

In the harsh light of day, he feels shame. Not as much shame as he should, but his body aches and he left the light on, apparently, magic though it may be. The witchlight is weak with the sun glaring through his window, too low already. He snaps his fingers and it practically falls to the ground rather than its normal graceful dissipation.

Stiles rubs at his neck, stretches, then decides to slip on a previously abandoned pair of sweats and head straight to the shower. He thinks about stripping the sheets, but laziness prevails.

Stiles hears footsteps as he makes breakfast, which makes no sense. Derek can speak—and growl and grunt and moan and...he should stop there, especially after what they did—but ghosts don’t make much noise. They certainly don’t have _footsteps_.

The creaking of the floorboards upstairs seems to disagree with him.

Frowning, Stiles shoves what he’s made into a tupperware without eating any: oatmeal with nuts and berries and chia seeds and no sugar. Perfect for overworked police officers who need to take better care of their bodies.

He hesitates.

Should it be different now when he leaves? Should he, like, kiss Derek goodbye?

Are they _together_?

Stiles has no clue, but he’s not going to go out and kiss—much less do anything else—with any _one_ else. The very idea of it makes him cringe and causes his stomach to flip uncomfortably.

For what has to be the millionth time, Stiles knows without a doubt that his life is fucked up.

“I’m going to see my dad!” he calls. Lower, to himself, “Because if I do the dying thing again without seeing him one last time, it’d _suck_.”

No response.

Stiles wobbles, shifting his bag, fumbling with his keys. He finally just shouts, “Bye!”

From his car he thinks he can see figures moving past the windows of the house. It’s oddly comforting.

Stiles makes good time and arrives at the station a few minutes before the Sheriff starts and he taps his fingers rhythmically against the bottom of the tupperware, magic keeping the oatmeal warm.

“Stiles?” he hears, and he spins around to see Parrish and offers a wave.

“Hey,” he calls, but his grin turns to confusion when Parrish doesn’t return it. “What…?”

Parrish blushes to the tips of his ears and pulls at his collar, as if he needs to adjust the fit. “Your, uh.” He gestures and Stiles’s eyes turn to huge, horrified saucers.

“Oh! Oh my god.” Stiles glances around, starts to hand off the container. “Can you give this to my—” He stops, clears his throat. “Hi, Dad!” He scrunches his neck down in a poor imitation of a turtle, trying to pull it off as a shrug of greeting.

“Stiles.” The Sheriff’s voice is even. Too even. _Suspiciously_ even because Stiles is being _suspicious_.

Bringing a hand up to quote-unquote _scratch_ at his neck, Stiles holds out the tupperware. “I brought breakfast.” He lets out a nervous chuckle and his dad’s eyes narrow to slits.

“What did you do?”

Stiles frowns in false confusion. “What?”

Noah raises an eyebrow.

Shoving the tupperware down on a nearby desk, Stiles pulls his dad into a hug. “I love you so much, Dad. Remember that.”

His dad doesn’t _quite_ sound mollified, and for good reason, but he returns, “Love you, too, son.”

Stiles holds on a little tighter and his dad’s hands are warm and comforting on his back.

“Alright,” his dad says, breaking away. “I won’t ask why you look like you’ve been mauled. We can pretend it’s just another witch thing I don’t understand. For now.” His look communicates very clearly how much he _does_ understand and yet Stiles is certain his dad hasn’t actually realized the extent of the mark.

“Yeah. Right,” Stiles agrees with a laugh. More of a mumble, “Thanks, Dad.”

They eat breakfast together in the break room and his dad keeps eyeing his neck warily, but, true to his word, doesn’t comment. Stiles keeps his shirt just a little too far up to be accidental in an effort to minimize his dad’s mental damage. He’s supposed to be here to check up on him, take care of him, not make him wonder what the hell Stiles has gotten himself into this time.

They talk about Scott, about what Stiles plans to do next year in school and whether or not he’ll lose any of his scholarships. Stiles has already confirmed and re-confirmed with the school to ease their worries because there’s no way he’s adding to his father’s financial burden just because he wants to take some time off.

Maybe if Deaton had been willing to teach him, and actually _try new things_ , Stiles wouldn’t have taken a year off.

And he wouldn’t have been in the Hale house. Or met the Hales. Or died.

“You gotta promise to take care of yourself, okay?” Stiles tells him. “No matter what.” He stares into his father’s eyes long enough for the sheriff to frown, for wrinkles to knit between his brows that Stiles feels far too responsible for each time.

“Do you promise to take care of _your_ self?” his dad asks.

Stiles clicks his teeth, begins a stiff, abortive nod.

Parrish interrupts to inform Noah of a call and Stiles makes to leave.

His dad lets out a sigh and marches into his office, Stiles in tow.

“What are you—”

But then his dad is handing over a folder of not-negligible thickness. “You didn’t get this from me.”

Stiles opens his mouth to ask, but he closes it again when he sees the name. He nods, tucks it under his arm.

Parrish, having gotten that first eyeful, is still looking at Stiles speculatively as Stiles heads out.

It makes Stiles think better of stopping by to see Scott given how Scott had felt about the claw marks. If Scott saw the bite… Yeah. Better not to test fate. At least not there.

Instead, after he indulges in magically playing a small trick on Jackson Whittemore, Stiles texts Scott about how his life is crazy and Scott sends a picture of him and Allison which...okay, whatever. They’re pretty cute.

Even if Scott’s eyes are closed because—

Oh.

The photos of the Hales make a lot more sense now that he’s using his brain.

“A whole family of werewolves.” Like he hadn’t already known.

It’s the little things.

Stiles goes back out to the Preserve and begins drawing various runes on the forest floor with a stick he finds, quickly kicking over dirt when he draws something wrong and the ground starts to rumble underneath him.

Vaguely, he remembers something about a spell that calls a some sort of spirit guide, but it sounds too much like messing with his ghosts at home and he nixes the idea.

One good thing about his witch studies is that he can identify edible and inedible plants and he snacks on what he finds, supplemented by whatever non-perishables he’d packed away. He can imagine a fantasy world in which he’s totally self-sufficient and-or wandering the world like Gandalf. He doesn’t have a wand, but maybe a staff would look cool.

It would be an awful lot of walking though and today Stiles is sore and his legs are stiff. Otherwise he feels unnaturally and uncharacteristically good.

He nearly forgets the file in his car and has to come back after dinner, finds Laura looking impatient and annoyed, but he can’t tell if it’s with him or something else.

Given the normal quiet of the house, however, and the footsteps upstairs, Stiles is fairly certain that she _heard_ something this morning and considers the fact that he slept with her younger brother. Maybe wolves are protective like that, instincts still wanting to protect the pack in whatever way they can.

Stiles ponders the fact that he has never met a living born wolf as the moon waxes, bright and beautiful, outside his bedroom window.

~

It takes only a cursory glance for Laura to confirm what her brother and Stiles are doing.

Somehow, she hadn’t quite put together their touching with... _that_. And, to be honest, she hadn’t been sure a ghost could do that, but, even in death, you apparently learn something new every day.

Laura isn’t sure whether she wishes she could _unlearn_ certain things now.

Stiles leaves and Laura hears him say his goodbyes, but she’s not going to risk Derek disappearing before they have a chance to talk.

“ _Derek,_ ” she calls, slipping through rooms without using the doors. She should probably stop since it makes her feel more and more like a _thing_ and less like a _person_ , deceased though she may be.

Haste, however, is of importance here.

“ _Hey, Laur,_ ” he says, staring out the window as Stiles’s Jeep groans to life outside, and Laura thinks about clawing his face off for the first time in a long, long time.

She takes a moment to calm herself, injects authority into her words. “ _We need to talk._ ”

God, he looks guilty.

Laura sighs and wraps her arms around her brother. That hadn’t been her intent. “ _I’m not mad at you._ ” She inclines her head up just that little bit to look him in the eye. He’d outgrown her at sixteen with the last spike of puberty, but she’d always had more power. “ _I might be mad at your wolf for roughing up a human, but not you._ ” She winces, _roughing up_ making her think too much about what exactly she might’ve seen, but it’s more the circumstance than anything.

“ _I don’t want to hurt him,_ ” Derek reiterates. “ _But…_ ”

“ _But I was right,_ ” Laura says matter-of-factly. “ _You want to claim him._ ”

Derek scoffs at her. She knows full well he just doesn’t want to _say_ it. “ _Why?_ ”

“ _Do you really need me to put two and two together for you?_ ” she asks, eyeing him with a certain amount of disappointment. He has something _rare_ , and something they hadn’t dared to believe _could_ be real, but now this witch in their house proves them wrong without any idea of what he’s doing.

The extent to which Derek will be able to enjoy this gift may be up for debate, which is a disheartening thought, but it’s still magical. Stiles is magical in more ways than one.

Laura walks away from her brother because some part of her is envious that he’d been chosen, not that she doubts he deserves it. “ _Derek,_ ” she begins slowly, “ _what is Stiles to you?_ ”

Silence reigns for long moments, but Laura knows Derek well enough—at least sane, functioning Derek, which she supposes is back thanks to Stiles—that she thinks he _will_ answer.

She _thinks_.

And, finally, he does, speaking low like it’s something he can’t bear to say. “ _He’s my mate._ ”

Hearing Derek say it hits her harder than just the idea coalescing in her mind. “ _He’s your mate._ ”

“ _Why now?_ ” Derek asks, and he’s angry. The wolf broils under the surface, but he’s retaining control. “ _Why when it’s too late?_ ”

“ _Fate?_ ” Laura suggests with a shrug.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “ _Why would fate try to kill an eighteen-year-old who did nothing wrong?_ ”

Laura nearly hesitates, but she blurts out, “ _Why would fate kill you?_ ”

“ _Because I deserved to die after what I let her—_ ” He stops, clenches his fist. His face crumbles. “ _And what I did to him—_ ”

“ _Stop beating yourself up, Derek._ ” Laura herself is guilt-ridden again, having not saved him in any sense of the word.

Laura drifts without meaning to until after Stiles’s return, frustrated equally with Derek and with herself.

Stiles isn’t a wolf. She can’t blame him for not knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPOILERS: Derek and Stiles have sex, partially because the bond demands that they do so. It is emphasized that Stiles wants Derek (and is aware of the bond) and Derek is in better control of himself now than he was previously.
> 
> Okay. Twenty thousand words before an _actual_ two person participatory sex scene? For me??? That's slow burn.
> 
> I hope y'all are enjoying the fic so far and let me know what you think. :)


	11. there's no antidote for this curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual content (and consent is discussed)
> 
> (General warning that Kate stuff is mentioned and has been mentioned though? Whoops.)

Derek is less than he had been when Stiles had examined him in the light after sleeping together, but far more than he’d been when Stiles had arrived.

Stiles scoots over and pulls open the covers, too tired to process how _domestic_ the action is. How familiar.

Derek, however, says nothing of how odd it might be and crawls in, settling down beside him.

Thoughtlessly, Stiles wraps an arm around him, kisses him soft and slow and sleepy.

Stiles’s dreams are of Derek in only the best ways this time: Derek laughing with his sisters, Derek as a wolf running in the Preserve, Derek in his bed.

The last image is what he wakes up to and the yearning is back, but it’s not as bad as it had been. He thinks about trying new things since he has a partner with which to do them, but they’re both in a haze that has them simply rutting their bodies against one another, sighing each other’s names.

It’s still heavenly, a word choice that hits too close to home.

It’s also still too early to get up so Stiles snuggles Derek into submission and Derek acquiesces. They manage to talk in the time of uninhibited coherence that comes between rests, get to know each other better.

Stiles catches Derek almost changing the subject a few times, like there’s something on his mind, but Derek never goes through with it, whatever it is.

Stiles talks about being a witch, admitting that he could probably do more but he was too scared to try.

Soon after, he falls back asleep.

The next time, he’s alone, but he’s less bothered by it. He goes about getting ready, meets Derek and Laura in the kitchen. It gives him funny feelings in his chest, like they’re really a makeshift family and everything is alright.

“Did you know how to cook?” he asks, then wipes at his mouth as he remembers his manners. The two nod. “Geez, what was your family _like_? Sorry. I didn’t mean… Yeah.” 

Derek doesn’t stay as long as Laura does and Stiles goes out into the Preserve again, applies a topical solution to his hands and places his palm on a tree, feels it down to its roots. He senses birds as they land on branches, flit through and ruffle the leaves. He does it to another tree and feels dizzy, takes notes about the whole experience before fashioning a divining rod and washing his hands in a stream he finds.

Back at the house, he ruffles through the file, more enraged with every tidbit of information he finds out about Kate. It doesn’t help that he’s become more attached to the Hales each day and he’s beginning to feel the loss of even those he’s never met. It may be sympathetic or selfish or just one of those things where you become attached to people based only on what you know of them.

He closes the file with a heavy sigh. He’s going to need time to make enough sense of it to _do_ something about it.

The night goes on.

Stiles and Laura watch Netflix back at the house and Derek joins them after a while. They’re all sprawled on the couch, watching TV shows Derek and Laura would never have seen in life but seem to appreciate, at least to some degree. Stiles can see Laura laughing sometimes, even though he can’t hear it. Derek doesn’t say anything about what they watch, but he looks over at his sister sometimes and Stiles realizes that Derek _can_ hear her. It’s something he could use to his advantage, but he doesn’t know what he’d do with it tonight.

He doesn’t want to disturb this warped version of what normality could’ve been.

Derek’s presence gives Stiles an opportunity to do _some_ things a little differently though. After he tells Laura goodnight, he focuses his shaky attention on Derek.

“Do you want to, uh.” Stiles glances up the stairs and back. “Come. To bed.” He swallows. “With me.” He doesn’t look at Laura, but she’s still there, probably judging him.

“ _Alright,_ ” Derek agrees, exchanging an unreadable look with his sister.

Stiles laughs nervously over the sound of their footsteps on the stairs, as they steal away into the room together like new lovers still shy.

Being next to Derek is good. Is warm. Is...

His body sends mixed signals, telling him it’s sore while simultaneously demanding he straddle Derek and ride him for all he’s worth.

This time, the rational parts of his brain tell him that he knows Derek better now...and, besides, he needs Derek to keep him alive. He traces a hand over Derek’s jaw, amazed at how much Derek _is_ real.

None of the voices in his head dare to say no to this and Stiles nearly cries with relief when Derek says, “ _I want you._ ” He follows it with, “ _But you can say no. You can always say no._ ”

Stiles laughs. “Not sure if that’s true, big guy, but I don’t want to anyway.” He’s not a virgin anymore, but barely. He has no experience in asking questions about sex with any kind of finesse. “Do you want to,” and he can feel the heat of embarrassment overcome that of arousal, “finger me first? Or, or I could.”

Wordlessly, Derek grabs the proffered lube and Stiles guesses that maybe Derek isn’t much of a talker, generally, but that’s okay.

Stiles, in an effort to make things easier, flips himself onto his stomach, tucking his knees under him. It’s so vulnerable and terrifying and the heat coiling in his belly encourages every second of it remorselessly.

He can’t see Derek, but he feels fingertips caressing his spine, on the meat of his ass, spreading him and— “Nngh.”

Derek’s tongue is on him.

Stiles isn’t sure exactly what Derek’s doing but it feels _good_. He reaches back, not sure what he wants, but Derek’s hand finds his, gives it a squeeze, and Derek’s tongue works insistently until Stiles’s body has relaxed into it, allows the intrusion. Somehow, Derek’s slicked finger is quick to follow, working in alongside. Then another. Another, crooked just so.

Stiles is a writhing mess and he wants to come but he can’t. His body is primed for Derek, for Derek. “You. Please, Derek, come on. I can’t, I can’t.”

Derek stops and Stiles sags, shivering and exposed, but then he sparks all over and has to force himself still as Derek’s cock breaches him. A rocking thrust before sliding in all the way, Derek draped over his back.

Fingernails scratch down his back and sides and Stiles jerks. “God, we fit together so perfectly. You feel so good in me. On me. All over me.”

“ _Perfect,_ ” Derek agrees, voice thick, sinking his teeth into Stiles’s shoulder. He manhandles Stiles until he has room to slip his hand between Stiles’s legs, to wrap thick fingers around Stiles’s cock.

The rest of the words they exchange are relegated to pleasure, to requesting more, to finding release.

Stiles is going to ruin these sheets, but it’s worth it.

Derek is sentimental. He must be, because he tangles their fingers together and pulls Stiles’s head down to rest on his chest.

Stiles wants to listen for a heartbeat but there’s none to be found.

He glares toward the file on his desk.

Someone had purposefully, willfully, maliciously murdered the Hales, had probably taken more from Derek than just his life. It’s not a pleasant thought to have before sleep, but it itches under his skin.

Derek didn’t have to die in the fire.

Maybe he’d have Derek for real then.

Or maybe at least Derek would have his family.

~

Laura has said her piece. She’s willing to give some leniency on how long it takes Derek to say anything to Stiles about it.

The three of them hang out with that tension in the air. Derek gets to talk to Stiles and Stiles invites Derek back to his room for bed because that’s where they’re at, where they need to be.

But Stiles doesn’t _know_.

Laura was never the most patient, but she’s always tried to be understanding.

And right now what she’s _understanding_ is that her brother isn’t telling his mate what’s going on despite the risk it’s already caused to Stiles.

Stiles had lost his _life_ , albeit temporarily, because Derek doesn’t know what to do when faced with things he has trouble comprehending. And that she can give to him, because she’d likely be feeling the same way. She just wouldn’t keep it to herself if she was being magnetically drawn to her soulmate.

Derek freaks out. It’s what he does.

But Derek is ultimately a good person and one of the best people Laura has ever known. He’s not going to keep this a secret from Stiles forever.

She doesn’t know how _keeping_ Stiles forever might work since they’ve been dead for six years. Even if she had ever believed in mates, this is beyond the pale. It’s a situation she doesn’t imagine comes up often even amongst the rarities of wolves who have found their mates, but it’s their reality.

Derek is dead and Stiles will die without Derek.

With a little bit of time, Derek will tell Stiles. He has to.

And hopefully they’ll be able to figure something out because if they can’t…

They have to.

They have to, right?


	12. tell me something i don't already know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: _no_ sexual content (???), brief violence

Stiles wakes up without Derek beside him. He takes a few moments to orient himself, to search, and he finds Derek downstairs by the door.

“Derek?” Stiles calls, and he comes in close without any thought of hesitation, of harm. He had fallen asleep comfortable and content in Derek’s arms.

But that deep, bitter, burning ash smell is stronger than it’s ever been. Derek’s body has looked solid, but now it vibrates, like static.

The first thing he notices are the claws where Derek’s hands curl at his sides, his body hunched. His clothes are tattered again, burned.

Stiles uses one hand to pull his shirt up over his face, covering his nose and mouth. He can already taste it, feel it sizzling up his nasal passage, his eyes watering. There’s an oppressive pressure of thick smoke although there is none to be seen and Stiles feels a tightness in his chest. He’s reminded of the night he woke up with the scratches, of falling to his hands and knees on the floor as he tried and failed to breathe.

With his other hand, he reaches out, slowly, palm out like he’s approaching a wild animal.

He still doesn’t think Derek will actually _hurt_ him again until Derek lashes out, claws raking through Stiles’s. Stiles pulls back immediately, instinctively, with a cry of pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see Derek freeze, his face twitch in recognition.

But when Derek lifts a hand again, even clawless as it is now, he flinches.

Derek flickers out of existence.

Stiles’s hand goes immediately to his own torn flesh and the blood is warm and sticky under his touch. He examines it and thinks it might’ve compromised the runes but it’s just _close_. They’re still whole.

He treats the wound almost without thinking, without trying. He concentrates on it and the stinging eases even before he washes it off, rubs it over with the last of his wound compound. It doesn’t fully heal like the deer’s leg had, but nothing Derek’s done to him has fully healed.

Stiles is— _hurtangrybetrayed_.

It’s a rash decision, but, despite popular belief, there is a part of Stiles that still has a working survival instinct. It tells him he can do something, can protect himself even though he hadn’t thought that he needed to.

Stiles has to dig to the bottom of one of his bags to find it, but the tied bundle of dried sage is there.

He lights with his hand—he’s never done that before—and breathes in the smoky smell of it. It doesn’t smell like house fire, like burning flesh. Like Derek.

It smells more deeply like pungent plant material, savory. Calming, despite his panic.

Stiles starts there in his bedroom and works his way out, letting the sage waft through the entire house.

He makes a few loops around the kitchen and does his room again just to be safe. The file is lying open on his desk and a sick feeling settles into the pit of his stomach.

Saging the house was vindictive, coming from a place of pain and betrayal and anger and maybe some shame and guilt, too.

But Derek _hurt_ him. Actually hurt him.

He hadn’t thought Derek would hurt him because for some reason he can’t explain, he trusts Derek. It probably has something to do with the whole thing where Derek brought him back from the edge of death.

And then Stiles had been researching the reason that Derek and his entire family were and still _are_ dead, hadn’t cared where he left it because he never thinks things like that through.

No wonder Derek had freaked out.

Stiles is an idiot.

He spends a little longer wallowing in how stupid he is and wondering how long Derek will be gone, since apparently he craves Derek without any reprieve unless they’ve just been in intimate contact and—

Stiles’s whole life is _fucked_.

Maybe Deaton was right to say that pursuing magic as a witch was troublesome, but he’s not going to give that creep the satisfaction of knowing how badly he’s messed up.

And, much as he loves Scott, Scott is not going to get it. At all.

Stiles calls Lydia.

This is basically within her purview.

 _“I have a midterm in two hours. How did you monumentally screw up?”_ her voice answers from the other end of the line.

“Wh— I.” Stiles stops. He runs a hand through his hair. Lydia says nothing and he knows she’s just waiting for him to fess up. He lets out a long, self-deprecating sigh. “Where should I start?”

She invites him to a video chat and Stiles, with trepidation, accepts. If she wants to see his face while they talk, it’s to read him. And she wants him to see her judging, which he knows she will be. He’s judging himself, too. The video loads and Lydia continues on as if there had been no interruption. _“What’s going on with you and the ghost you touched?”_

Stiles stutters, shifts. “Um. _He_ touched _me_.” He clears his throat. “First.”

Lydia’s raised eyebrow says more than enough, but she speaks to him like she would a child. _“He touched you first,”_ she allows slowly. _“And then what?”_

Stiles is certain that Lydia has already come to her own conclusion about what he’s done, but he tells her anyway. “And I slept with him.” She purses her lips, sated by his admission, and he continues. “And then I started looking into his murderer and he went all poltergeist on me so I saged the house.”

If Lydia were the kind of person to put her head in her hands, Stiles would at least be relieved from seeing the look of utter disappointment on her face. _“You saged the house.”_

“Repeating everything I say isn’t— Well, okay. It does give me some perspective but I _know_ , alright?” He blows out a breath. “And the thing is, I can’t live without him, Lyds.” He tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling. “Literally. And I don’t even know the guy.”

At this, Lydia frowns, her brow knitted in thought. _“What exactly do you mean?”_

“I mean I _died_. Or close enough.” Stiles’s eyes flicker to his own face in the corner of the call.

 _“I need more details, Stiles,”_ Lydia says, interrupting him from his introspection of his outer appearance.

“My body acts like I need him to survive. If we don’t touch, I get sick. Like— like some kind of curse where if he doesn’t fuck me, my whole body shuts down and I die.”

Lydia actually _slumps_ back. _“Stiles.”_ And her tone has changed. _“I’m worried.”_

“ _Now_ you’re worried? But you weren’t worried if I was just sleeping with a ghost?” Stiles hopes his open-mouthed outrage has the intended effect.

Lydia rolls her eyes. _“It was obvious you wanted to and, as a good friend, I just want you to be happy.”_ She smiles at him and he glares back.

“Look, just… What do I do now?”

_“I did some research, but I can’t confirm anything. There’s nothing about witches and werewolf ghosts fucking in any of the university’s library books or in anything I could find online. If you were a **banshee** …” _She shrugs. _“But I did find something about werewolves that might be relevant.”___

__Stiles knows she’s pausing for dramatic effect and he waves his hand at her impatiently._ _

___“If a werewolf’s mate dies, they usually die, too.”_ _ _

__“‘Mate’?” Stiles repeats. “What does that even _mean_? We’re not living in some cheesy romance novel.” He squints. “Or I’m pretty sure _not touching_ a dead guy wouldn’t kill me.”_ _

___“Werewolves can have mates, Stiles. Mystical, magical connections to other people that can’t be denied.”_ _ _

__“Which implies that I’m Derek’s mate. _Mate_.” Stiles gawps at her. “He’s been dead for six years. He’s dead. Literally.”_ _

___“So you keep reminding me,”_ she says._ _

__“So what do I do?” he asks._ _

__Unhelpfully, Lydia shrugs. “Figure it out.”_ _

__Stiles spends the rest of the day doing little of use, moping and wasting time. In the back of his mind plans start to form, but he’s too apathetic to start on any of them._ _

__Stiles goes to bed lonely._ _

__He sucks, and not even in the good way._ _

__~_ _

__Laura hears Stiles cry out in pain, can sense Derek’s anger, she searches for them and she sees that Stiles is hurt._ _

__Stiles is bleeding._ _

__She wants to find Derek. She needs to know what—_ _

__And then she’s not anywhere._ _

__She’s not any _one_._ _

__She’s not any _thing_._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I really need y'all to shout at me if you want the next two chapters tomorrow. :P


	13. begging you to keep on haunting me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual content*, mild embarrassment, mentions of Kate
> 
> *see end notes for more about sexual content

Stiles has the ouija board set up on the coffee table and he sits cross-legged in front of the couch, has opened all the doors and windows and done the _opposite_ of what most spells want to do. His witchlight hovers over the table.

He dispels the cleansing of the house faster than it would dissipate on its own and taps his fingers impatiently until the charmed bell chimes, telling him that there are spirits in the house.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles mutters. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

No one appears to him and, yeah, Stiles maybe deserves that.

“Laura,” he calls. “I need to talk to you. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d talk to me.”

Still nothing.

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

But Laura appears, shaking her head like it’s already done.

“I shouldn’t have, uh, banished you from your own house.” Stiles fidgets. He offers his arm in explanation. “I hurt his mind and he hurt my body.” He glances around, makes sure Derek isn’t around. “He saw her name. I...have a whole file on her. I know she’s the one that did this and I’m gonna get her, I swear, but. I know why he’s upset.” He shakes his head, swipes at his eyes because he really does _hate_ it, and he hates _her_. “That’s definite trauma. Everything that she...”

Laura has that sickly, sour smell again and Stiles gestures to the board.

“So...can we talk?”

Laura takes a seat across from him on the floor and Stiles turns the board toward her.

“I can read upside down,” he explains, wants to make it more convenient for her, then hovers his hand over the planchette. “Is it easier with me or on your own?”

Laura places her hand atop his and he nods, settles in.

Immediately, she draws the cursor to _hello_ and Stiles laughs, letting out a bubble of anxiety he hadn’t known was choking him until it wasn’t anymore.

“I’m right about her, aren’t I?”

 _Yes_. The board is unnecessary for yes or no questions, but the affirmation is a big one.

Stiles sighs. It’s what he had to know, but it’s still unpleasant. He had gotten caught up on Derek and had nearly forgotten what had caused the series of revelations his previous day had been consumed by. He’s keenly aware of the file that sits on his desk, his lips thinning in concentration.

Laura nudges him.

“I called Lydia,” Stiles says. It seems a good place to start. He fidgets, but Laura’s hand is still on his so he bulldozes through all of his anxieties. “She said…” He clears his throat. “It’s too ridiculous, and you know I’m ridiculous. Could you just—” He scrubs a hand over his head. “What’s happening with me and Derek?”

Laura rolling her eyes is not the reaction he expects, but he shoots her a glare as she moves the planchette: _m-a-t-e-s_.

“Right. Magical, mystical mates.” The word tastes funny, wrong and right at the same time. “I feel like this is something I should’ve heard about, you know? Like, ‘oh, hey, werewolves have mates.’”

Shaking her head, Laura pushes Stiles’s hand until together they spell out _rare_.

“And neither of us has any control over whether or not that’s what we want. Not that I don’t want him. Not that I _do_ ,” he rants, embarrassed. “But _she_ … I’m guessing she didn’t give him much choice either. I don’t want to do that to him, on purpose or not. I don’t want to be like her because everything I know, along with some things I really shouldn’t, tells me what she did was beyond psychotic.”

A hand slams against the table and Stiles sees Laura like he never has before: her eyes flashing and her claws extending. She drags his hand around the board and Stiles’s eyes track the movement, alert and fascinated.

 _No. Nothing like her_.

Stiles yanks his hand away, holds it up in supplication. “I know, but.” He frowns, shakes his head. “I just don’t want to hurt him.” He gestures around. “Too late, I guess.”

Laura reaches for him and he knows it must take her effort to draw him into a hug, but he appreciates it.

“What happens now? Can you guys leave the house?” At her head shake, Stiles rubs his face. “What does that mean for us? For you? Are we all just trapped here.”

She shrugs and Stiles doesn’t need the ouija board to see how much she _doesn’t_ know.

Stiles leans back against the edge of the couch and deflates. “Good talk,” he mumbles.

He zones out for a while and hears noises, footsteps, that weird whisper that means the ghosts are talking.

One of the whispers sounds very distinctly like Derek and Stiles can feel the pull.

A day without Derek has left him blurry around the edges, fighting to keep himself together as his mind tears him apart. He lifts a hand and examines it.

He’s still alive, but the effort of even that had felt like too much.

“Derek,” he says, because he might’ve monumentally fucked up, but he still needs him.

This Derek is animal and unclear again, but he comes to Stiles. He pulls Stiles up onto the couch, up against him.

Stiles leans into it, threads their fingers together, _breathes_. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s not your fault.”

Derek tenses against him and Stiles squirms now that he has the wherewithal to do so. His energy is returning to him, but guilt and pain tamp down everything else.

He doesn’t know how long that’ll last given what happens to them, given what needs to happen to them. “Can you hear me, Der?”

He feels the nod and hums.

“Talk to me,” Stiles tells him. “You can call me an idiot. It’s fine.”

“ _You’re not an idiot,_ ” scrapes out of Derek. “ _I was._ ”

Stiles shakes his head vehemently. “No. No, you weren’t. You were a kid and then maybe you thought it was finally over, but she— You didn’t deserve _any_ of that.” Stiles shifts, wanting to turn but enjoying what has turned into a spooning session on the couch. “Does Laura think you did?”

Derek is quiet and Stiles pulls away to turn and look at him.

“That’s what I thought. And she’s right. And I’m right.” He sucks in a breath. “And you’re not _wrong_ , but you… You aren’t right this time. Stop beating yourself up about it.”

“ _I can’t._ ”

“Okay,” Stiles allows. “Maybe not yet. We can work on that.”

The contact is good and it’s almost enough, but not quite. Stiles shoves his face into Derek’s chest and breathes, the ash clearing away for new growth, the forest there in his senses, under Derek’s skin. It makes him think of a phoenix, ashes and resurrection.

The thought is cut short as Derek shifts, alighting other parts of Stiles’s brain.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Derek murmurs and Stiles silences him with a kiss, a million needles prickling at his skin in the best way.

Stiles pulls away to look at Derek. “I don’t wanna—“ He pauses, breath short. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

He’s amazed he can get out that much clearly, that he’s allowed to think about choice and consequences when half the time it feels it’s been stripped away from them.

“Maybe we can find another way,” he starts, tries to keep himself still as his whole body burns with the need to move, to sew himself into Derek and have Derek sewn into him in turn.

Derek breaks the stall, hands gripping Stiles’s sides. “ _The mating bond._ ”

A twitch, a roll of hips.

“ _Fate doesn’t have to make sense,_ ” Derek mutters. “ _If we could stop, if you’d be okay—_ ”

But Stiles’s mouth is on his again, tongue wetting his lips, seeking affirmation in the sanctity of his kiss.

Derek holds Stiles close and meets him with fervor, with assurance.

They both want this—consciously, unconsciously. Without doubt.

“ _Not enough._ ”

Stiles bites Derek’s bottom lip, starts working off his clothes while maintaining as much contact with Derek as he can, making a mess of things. Their bodies grind and Derek is hard against him—and Stiles is so hard, so, so— They’re pressing against each other so that they can rut into the friction. It’s been too long because every moment is too long when they’re not touching now, or at least that’s how it seems as it’s over him. “Mh,” Stiles manages. “More, yeah. Yeah, I— I don’t have anything here. How can— Unh.”

Derek growls.

“Kitchen. Backpack. All sorts of, of—”

Derek lifts them from the couch they make an odd sort of tumble as they fall to the floor, Stiles’s back slick against the hardwood floor and he doesn’t think, just kisses Derek, lets Derek’s shifting nails-claws prick into the flesh over his hipbones, enough force to bruise beneath those fingertips, palms. He arches up to meet every touch with a needy keening that doesn’t sound like himself.

Stiles wants Derek in him right the fuck now and he almost doesn’t care about whether or not it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker because he’s going to burn up, freeze, chip into pieces if Derek isn’t even closer.

And then he’s being moved, jostled as Derek takes them to their salvation.

Stiles has no control over his hands as Derek gets him to his backpack, holding him up like he weighs nothing, levers them both against the kitchen table so shaky fingers can unzip pockets, can frustratedly dump the contents out and they fall haphazardly. His eyes can’t focus and, _god_ , he just—

Magic wreathes his thoughts, acts on his will and he’s—

“Fuck me, fuck me,” Stiles chants, a coal in him so hot his insides will char and melt.

Almost unable to do anything but oblige, Derek hesitates only a second before he’s hooking one of Stiles’s knees over his arm, breaching into Stiles with more ease than logic dictates should be possible.

“Witch,” Stiles explains at the look, then stutters his hips, starts fucking himself onto Derek with breathy noises.

Derek slides out, back in with too much and not enough force and the table skids away, nearly dropping them.

Derek holds Stiles up, keeps them from falling, but Stiles wants more control, taps and pushes ineffectually at Derek’s shoulders until they’re back to the floor.

He straddles Derek, full and able to suffuse his mind, body, and soul with some sense of completion.

On top of Derek like this, morning light filtering through the kitchen windows, Stiles can see hazel eyes clearly, brown and green and mottled and beautiful like the earth outside, like Derek is a part of nature itself. Isn’t that exactly what he came here to study?

“ _Mate,_ ” Derek says and Stiles grins, but it twists when Derek thrusts up into him.

Stiles finds Derek’s hand and wraps it around his cock and they don’t need rhythm because their bodies are synched. His pleasure is Derek’s and Derek’s is his.

He rocks himself on Derek’s cock, into Derek’s grip. Slippery friction and sweat and the undulation of their bodies.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he says and the sensation encompasses him as he spills between their bodies, has him collapsing onto Derek’s chest uncaring of the mess as he says, “Derek,” over and over and over again.

He can feel Derek inside, Derek’s release hitting him, staggering them both in their thoughts.

Sated, Stiles is still tired. Derek acts to move, and Stiles makes a noise of protest, mumbling, “Stay.”

Contentedness subdues his thoughts and he nuzzles Derek encouragingly as Derek sucks and bites at whatever skin he can find, more affirmations.

He must fall asleep there, curled awkwardly over Derek, knees cold on the kitchen floor, and _completely naked_ , because the next thing he knows, something is hitting him in the shoulder.

Derek’s grip tightens on him, loosens, goes tense.

And Stiles nods into consciousness. “What…”

But then he processes and looks over to see Laura glaring at them with raised eyebrows.

“Oh.” And Stiles processes where he is, what he’s doing, what he must _look like_ , and turns bright red. “Oh, my god. Laura.” Then down. “Derek.” Up. “Laura, give us a—”

With another _look_ , Laura paces away. _After_ tapping her wrist like she expects a speedy clean up and an explanation.

Stiles stares into Derek’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says again, guilt surging back.

Derek shakes his head, leans up to meet Stiles in a soft, sweet kiss. They’re not rushed by the bond’s urging, the pull satisfied by their proximity and, _fuck_ , Derek is still in him. Okay. That’s... _something_.

Now is not the time to explore all those fantasies that are cropping up in his brain. But, again, _eighteen_. What is he _expected_ to think?

Derek and Stiles, with an embarrassed sort of trepidation, separate and figure themselves out. Luckily, the kitchen has a sink and paper towels. Stiles doesn’t know why he had done something so…

Well, it’s a lie. He does.

He fucked, he slept. He took care of his needs.

Derek takes his hand and it’s not the first time, but Derek isn’t trying to hold him: he’s using leverage to turn Stiles’s arm, examining the damage his claws inflicted. “ _I hurt you. Attacked you._ ”

And Derek looks at him with wide eyes wild with worry.

“You didn’t mean to,” Stiles says. “Hey,” when Derek won’t look at him. “You didn’t. I know you didn’t.” His arm stings, and doesn’t. Strange.

Laura comes back, looking relieved. She and Derek exchange words, but Stiles can only understand Derek’s side and the guy is so near-monosyllabic, it doesn’t end up meaning much, although there is a, “ _I know, Laura._ ”

“Sorry, Laura,” Stiles says, because he definitely feels like she deserves an apology for all the shit they’ve put her though.

Derek sighs after another moment. “ _She says you need to eat._ ”

“Oh.” And Stiles nods to Laura. “Yeah. Right. Okay.”

Stiles perfunctorily makes himself...well, he’s not exactly sure it’s breakfast. The positioning of the sun tells him it’s definitely not morning.

Outside the window, Stiles sees squirrels skittering up the trees and takes a moment to enjoy how nice this must’ve been, when this house was alive and filled with people. It’s the perfect place for a family of werewolves, out in the middle of the Beacon Hills Preserve. It’s peaceful, but there are animals out there, plants and trees and space to run around. He hasn’t thought about the house itself since he moved in, too caught up in everything else.

“ _Stiles?_ ” Derek prompts, and Stiles realizes he must’ve been spacing out.

He wants to say something, to sympathize or empathize or commiserate, but he shuts his mouth tight. It would just be a reminder of loss when they’ve gained back some sense of camaraderie.

It doesn’t seem a good idea to tempt fate.

Stiles forces a smile. “What’s up?” he asks, turns his attention to the stove even as his mind wanders elsewhere.

Vaguely, he wonders how much Derek can sense.

Stiles avoids the subject of Kate for the rest of the day. When his mind wanders to the file, he feels tight, tense. It makes him feel on edge and he sees Derek gone wild. He thinks of Derek burning and he goes cold.

Laura and Derek draw him back though.

He doesn’t dare leave today, doesn’t want to. He wants to see the Hales and make up for yesterday, for what he did to them.

He finally broaches the subject, everything gnawing at him until the words can’t help but fall out of his mouth. Stiles has never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

“What was it like? When I...saged the house? What did that actually _do_ to you?” Stiles asks. The three of them are in his bedroom and he has music playing low. If he really thinks about it, it would maybe be weird that he’s known them less than two weeks, even less than that of time in which they could communicate in any way, shape, or form. And yet they’re close as best friends, like he’s known them forever.

Laura looks up from where she’s reading through one of his books and then over to Derek. She says something, he thinks, but he can only judge through Derek’s frown.

“ _It wasn’t like anything for her,_ ” Derek explains. “ _She was here and then she wasn’t. It’s not like we can leave the house._ ”

Stiles starts to nod, pauses. “Wait. For her? What about for you?” He chews on his pen.

Derek’s brows furrow. He’s sitting on the floor across from Stiles. “ _I wasn’t...nothing. My anger was there and then when I— After I hurt you, it was gone. And then you pushed us away and it was like I was trapped outside, like the doors were locked and I couldn’t get in, but I was there. Waiting._ ”

Stiles shifts. He’s uncomfortable suddenly, doesn’t know how much Derek might’ve seen or heard if Derek was there. “What does that _mean_?” he asks, his voice an octave too high.

He has no idea what he has to be embarrassed about, but he feels it nonetheless, mind replaying only the parts of his conversation with Lydia that might’ve reflected on him poorly. How she knew he wanted to sleep with Derek, how ridiculous he indicated mates were until Derek was growling the word to him like it meant _everything_ and it had.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think there was amusement in Derek’s confused expression.

“ _I couldn’t hear you. Or see you. But I could sense that you were just beyond my reach._ ” All the humor, even the befuddlement, fade from his expression.

Swallowing, Stiles nudges his foot against Derek. “I was scared. Of you. I’ve never been scared of you before. I didn’t wanna die again.” His breath hitches. He’s putting his foot in his mouth again and again, but what’s new.

Derek looks at Laura. “ _We don’t want you to die. I just… I don’t know what will happen._ ”

Stiles stares at Derek for a long moment, even though Derek is looking anywhere but at him. “Right.” Slowly, he starts scooting towards Derek, wants comfort through contact even when the bond isn’t screaming at him.

A whisper that he doesn’t see, his eyes closing as he leans into Derek’s shoulder.

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Derek says, and Stiles feels him shake his head. Derek’s arm wraps around him with hesitation.

Derek’s really the only person who’s ever held him like this.

Stiles and Laura force Derek to work as interpreter a few more times over the course of the evening, the moon growing brighter out his window, and Stiles asks if Laura sleeps, since Derek seems to.

Laura just shakes her head at that and reality presses back in on them again. It comes in waves: everything is fine, everything is shattering to pieces.

How does the saying go? If you don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist.

They don’t...

But Stiles can’t _not_ think.

~

The gashes in Stile’s arm are deep but they look like they’ve already begun to heal and it must be his magic because she _knows_ it’s fresh from early this morning, right before the whole world had disappeared.

“He saw her name,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t need to explain for Laura to know exactly who he means.

 _Kate Argent_.

Everything makes sense in a horrible sort of way. For someone else to know brings back how real it is. It also tells her that Kate is still out there somewhere and has probably been causing more suffering. She doubts a hunter like Kate would be satisfied for long, going on what she’d done to Derek.

Laura seethes and she notices Stiles wincing, face crinkling.

She’s causing that.

He wants to talk and Laura sets aside her anger, eager to comply. It really should be Derek who explains his own life, explains what he and Stiles are to one another, but if Stiles asks, she’s going to tell him. After their new unfortunate altercation, Stiles deserves to known more than ever.

Laura _could_ move the planchette on her own, but it’s easier to guide than to do it all through her force of will. Moving physical objects is still tiring...for her. The concept reminds her of how carelessly Derek can now touch Stiles and, seemingly, everything else.

Stiles looks like he’s about to snap, so when she moves the planchette and he smiles, so does she.

And then he asks if he’s right and her answer has him elsewhere. He’s bothered by their plight, by what Kate did. Laura doesn’t know what details he’s managed to gather but he if he’s figured out that it was Kate, he had to have found the paper trail they’d tried to leave. He might have some inkling of what Kate did to Derek.

Laura’s heart breaks for Stiles, her _no_ is vehement and she stays his hand when he tries to pull away.

Stiles hasn’t done anything wrong. The mating bond is doing the same thing to him as it is to Derek, but ghosts are generally less aware and less steady than their living counterparts may have been. And Derek hadn’t been particularly _steady_ in a while.

He seems defeated and Laura hates it. She’s happy, in a weird way, that he had tried to protect himself given the way he hadn’t so many times before.

Her wolf doesn’t like that he pushed her from her territory and _especially_ that he had pushed away her younger brother, but she’s glad that he could go through with it.

Their bond is draining him now.

A little while after she and Stiles are done talking—“talking,” ha—she catches a glimpse of Derek, who looks more apprehensive than usual.

They go through a non-verbal exchange, gesturing to Stiles, to the house. There are some things that words only make more difficult.

“ _He knows,_ ” she finally says. “ _He knows he’s your mate._ ”

“ _I should’ve been the one to tell him,_ ” Derek mutters, ashamed.

Laura shrugs. “ _Yeah, you should’ve. But I can’t begin to imagine how hard it is, what having a mate is like._ ”

“ _It’s not like I know._ ”

Laura stares at him. He’s losing control of his shift again and she’s come to realize that it’s tied to not only his emotions but to Stiles. He had lost it yesterday and he’s losing it again now, but he’s somewhere in between.

Stiles lets out a low sound and Derek’s clarity drops a level, his wolf moves forward.

Laura leaves them be. She haunts the rooms, remembering what they once were, who once lived here. It doesn’t do any good, but the memories she thinks of are fond ones, not the darkness that’s been lingering here since the fire. She thinks of how they would chase each other, play tricks.

She wants to share, but she arrives back to find Derek and Stiles naked on the kitchen floor touching in all _sorts_ of ways she’d rather not consider. And, oh, Stiles is _asleep_.

“ _Hey!_ ” she calls at Derek, but it’s too late.

Laura concentrates on the detritus that has skittered across the floor, evidently from Stiles’s upturned backpack. She tosses a pen, then a chapstick.

She makes clear that she’s waiting, but she doesn’t need to see anything _else_ , thank you very much.

“ _I can’t believe I have to put up with this after death._ ”

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _Shut up._ ”

“ _You care about him,_ ” she says. “ _I know you do._ ” She stops, smiles. “ _I’m glad._ ”

“ _I know, Laura,_ ” Derek says, but his expression is something else. A storm is brewing behind hazel eyes and Laura lets out a sigh.

Stiles has been waiting, wants to say something; it turns out to be an apology and Laura laughs, even though he can’t hear it. She appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

Derek doesn’t apologize, but she thinks having his sister throw things at his mate because they fucked in the kitchen and fell asleep there is mortifying enough without having to voice it.

Laura nods to Stiles. “ _He looks tired. Has he eaten?_ ”

Derek passes on the message and Laura smirks. Maybe Derek can be useful.

Stiles is spacey, but he doesn’t blab at her like he had in the past. He’s pensive, a lot going on under the surface. Between herself and Derek, they keep him from going under but something is bothering him all day.

It’s like being a teenager again, going over to a friend’s house even though the house is her own, but they just hang out in his bedroom.

She can imagine her mother downstairs, reading to her father while he cooks dinner for everyone.

They’re not particularly interacting, but they all seem to feed off of each other’s company. His spellbooks have notes scribbled around the text and some are just as frenetic as Stiles himself can be.

Derek and Stiles sit across from each other and Stiles is writing something down and Derek is mostly staring at Stiles like he doesn’t know what to do with him. She wants to toss him a book—Derek had always loved to read—but then Stiles is asking a question.

“ _Tell him I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t here. I just… **wasn’t**._ ”

And Laura notices exactly what Stiles does, that Derek is saying for her, and he describes how it was for him.

“ _It was different,_ ” she whispers. His wolf had been yearning, had been fighting back.

Derek and Stiles are having their moment and her heart—her _heart_ — _aches_ for them. And then Stiles mentions that he doesn’t want to die and the air leaves the room.

“ _God._ ” She puts her hand to her mouth. What if that’s what it takes? What if this _will_ kill him? She has no idea how a mating bond works.

Derek is talking and then they’re huddled together on the floor.

“ _Has he ever had anyone else like this? Has he ever been in love before?_ ” Because he is, Laura can see it. She supposes the bond forces them together, but it does so for a reason. In this way, fate knows what it’s doing.

She just has no idea.

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Derek tells her, and he doesn’t _want_ to know. Not now.

At least he can talk to her and she can pretend she can talk to Stiles, but he won’t say it all.

Everything is fraught but they’re trying to keep it from fraying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *CHAPTER SPOILER: Self-lubrication through magic.
> 
> I'm so sorry this is more than a day late, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Thanks to those of you reading and commenting, it really helps me try to finish up these last chapters.
> 
> And thanks so much to Anefi for reading through this for me! Anefi is great. ♥


	14. this thing upon me howls like a beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: light mentions of sexual content, mentions of Paige and Kate, and...a little bit of angst (?)

Stiles untangles himself from Derek and gathers his books. He claims that it’s because he’s going to work on spells out in the woods, but Stiles gathers his books, his laptop, the file on Kate. He ignores the way he shakes as he leaves Derek.

He takes himself out far enough that he doesn’t think they’ll be able to see him, should they try to look. He sucks back the sob that has his lips quivering and breath catching. He swipes at his eyes.

No tears have fallen, but he’s overwhelmed. The cold light of morning is a real thing that tells him what he has...isn’t. Not in the ways that matter. Not in ways that he can keep.

Everything in his research—what he’d kept from them last night, anything he’d read in the deepest recesses of his curiosity—says you can’t bring back the dead. Not really, at least.

And everything that suggests even the _possibility_ requires a body.

There are no bodies. There _weren’t_ any bodies. He had read the reports, as a curious, clever child who spent too much time in the sheriff’s station and knew too much for his own good was wont to do.

Nothing good enough to identify and no one to identify it.

The Hales were just _gone_.

He wants them back.

He needs them back.

Stiles can’t live without Derek and he doesn’t want to.

So what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

Stiles is resourceful as hell, and he doesn’t have any idea how to bring them back. He bites at his thumb and shakes his head. “There’s gotta be something.”

He reads the same texts again and again and again, past the point where his eyes can make sense of the words.

“Gotta be, gotta be,” he repeats like a mantra, and something drops onto the page. He tilts his head back to stem the flow.

Stiles is kneeling on the ground, books and notes strewn everywhere. Nothing that _helps_.

“ _Fuck_!” Stiles’s fist hits his thigh and it’s a dull pain, nothing compared to the one in his head, his chest.

Stiles had started learning magic because he thought he could make his own rules, but he’s bound here when suddenly he needs magic to _actually_ help. When there’s no other solution.

Stiles had ever suspected necromancy would become his number one priority; it had always just been a sick curiosity. Now it seems his on salvation.

Probably the feeling Stiles hates most in the world is that of seeming utterly and completely useless.

Even before he’d started studying magic, he’d been able to hold his own in the new supernatural world that Scott’s bite had led them into. He had a baseball bat. He and Lydia could make Molotov cocktails. He could trick something, bait something, distract something to make sure his friends got out safe.

And he has _actual_ magical powers now and he can’t do shit.

He can’t—

He can’t _get them back_.

They don’t exist outside the house and, maybe sometime soon, neither will he.

Stiles wanders closer to the house, but he still doesn’t want them to overhear. He knows they could see him out here now if they try, but he also thinks they respect his privacy. A little bit.

He _hopes_ that they do, at least, even though there’s never seemed to be proper privacy or propriety between him and Derek.

He sits in his Jeep to soak in its metaphorical warmth, all of its familiarity, and dials Lydia’s number.

“I don’t know what to do.” And he’s fucking _crying_ and his words come out wet and slurred and he hates it but he can’t help it.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ she says, sounding it, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Stiles’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel with his free hand, searches for some sort of grounding. “Come on, Lydia. You’re the smartest person I know. You’ve gotta have something.” Quieter, tighter, “ _Please_.”

It takes Lydia another minute to respond and when she does, she’s regretful. Defeated. _“Talk to Scott.”_

“Talk to—“ Stiles hangs up, tosses his phone into the passenger seat, and punches the door of the car. He glances over in apology. His Jeep is good to him.

Twitching but determined hands slide the key into the ignition even though he’d rather be sliding into Derek’s lap and dosing up on his new life-saving, life- _taking_ drug. It’s similar to when he uses the stone to guide him, but different. The feeling in his heart and his gut tells him that he’s going the wrong direction and tries to tug him back but he ignores it, drives faster.

Stiles rubs at his face until it feels raw and sensitive because the tears keep coming and he feels like a little kid but everything hurts and his brain can’t fix it, can’t rationalize what’s completely irrational.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his cheeks a splotchy red and white mess punctuated by his dark moles. He’ll probably start looking worse in other ways by the time the tear tracks have faded and maybe the bond reacts on emotion, too. The more distraught he is, the more he needs Derek, but instead of going to him like his instincts scream, he gets farther away.

He doesn’t want to think about what he might be doing to Derek.

Stiles drives straight to Scott’s house and is relieved to see Scott’s bike is there, even if Allison’s car is, too.

After he strikes up the courage and knocks, it takes a second for Scott to yank open the door, looking worried.

“What happened?” His eyes rove over Stiles and Stiles is certain there are a myriad of things he should’ve tried to hide, but it doesn’t fucking matter. “They attacked you.”

What bubbles up like laughter comes out a sob. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs his face. “Can I come in?”

“Oh.” And Scott still sounds angry-concerned, like he’s going to wolf out, but he backs up until Stiles has made his way inside, shuts the door right behind him.

“Stiles?” Allison calls from the stairs and Stiles likes Allison but right now all he can think is that she’s connected to Kate, to the reason this has all gone so utterly wrong.

He probably shouldn’t let it get the best of him. “Fuck your family,” he says though.

Allison’s mouth shuts, her expression unreadable.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott growls, defending Allison’s honor, but then Allison waves him off.

“Okay.” Allison looks genuinely curious. “My family does kind of suck.”

Before Scott, Allison hasn’t even known that the Argents were werewolf hunters, hadn’t even known about werewolves.

“I can’t even… _touch_ that right now,” Stiles says, and his hands won’t stop shaking and he shoves himself down onto the couch. “But they do. They really do.” He drops his head forward and sucks in a deep breath.

“Is that a _bite_?” Allison, not Scott.

“Yeah.” Like it’s no big deal. One on the back of his neck, at least two overlapping on his collarbone. He doesn’t even know, but he wants every single mark. He wants evidence and it’s affirming and assuring that everything between him and Derek has actually happened.

Scott grabs his shoulder with too much force and Stiles winces. “What _happened_?” Scott asks again, toothy.

Scott just wants to protect him, but Scott has no fucking clue. “I…” Stiles tilts his head up to look at Scott. “Sit down, alright? No one attacked me.” A half-truth, the slices in his arm hidden under his flannel shirt. He clasps his hands to give himself an air of stillness, of some semblance of control.

Wary, Scott glances at Allison and the two flank him on the couch.

Allison puts a hand to his back and rubs small circles. Stiles can’t see it, but he’s pretty sure she’s making that face at Scott that says he should be performing his best friend duties to a higher degree of satisfaction.

“Okay,” Scott grits out, like every fiber of his being disagrees. “No one attacked you. You’re just covered in—”

“Scott,” Allison interrupts, then turns her attention to Stiles. “Where do you want to start? I haven’t heard anything since you moved into that old house except for Scott thinking the ghosts were…” She stops, seeming to have realized where that statement was going. “There are ghosts?” she tries.

Stiles nods. “Laura and Derek Hale. They died in the fire.” And he doesn’t say the rest, doesn’t know how Allison feels about Kate.

“And they were werewolves?” Underneath the innocent way she asks, Stiles thinks she connects the dots. Allison is smart, quick.

Scott probably has no idea.

Stiles says, “Born wolves. Most of the family was, I think.” He chews on his bottom lip.

Low in his throat, Scott begins to growl. Of course he does.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes, annoyed. “They… I think they care about me.” He shakes his head, leans into Allison’s touch even though it’s not the touch he needs. “I love them, Scotty. Derek and Laura. But… But I think I’m _in love_ with Derek. Holy shit.” Stiles has never actually phrased it that way before, even in the sanctity of his own head.

Scott makes a face. “He’s dead.”

Stiles gapes at him. “Yeah. That’s why this is a problem.”

Scott very much does not know what to do with the information and Stiles would laugh if it wasn’t over how tragic his own life is. Hell, he might _still_ laugh.

“It’s kind of romantic,” Allison says.

Scott and Stiles swivel to her comically and Allison has the decency to blush.

“You know, the whole love going beyond the realm of death thing.”

“Except it’s killing me,” Stiles whispers. He holds up a hand just to check its opacity.

Allison doesn’t say anything but Stiles doesn’t even need to _look_ at Scott to know that Scott is upset, is fuming and wants to scream at him.

“Don’t, Scott.” Stiles is tired, down to his very soul. “And I need to get back soon or I’ll die. Again.”

Allison wraps her arms around him first, but Scott’s arms follow. Stiles thinks of how the last person to hug him was Laura but she could never be here.

Derek and Laura can’t meet his friends, wouldn’t even be visible to them.

And Stiles doesn’t know whether or not he can live in two worlds, but he knows which one is threatening to swallow him up whole and he’s starting to wonder, in the back of his mind, if that would really be so bad.

It’s that thought that snaps him back, tells him the bond has dropped a veil over all rationale. He tries to trick himself into thinking it’s proximity. Will this level of separation allow him to break free? Maybe if he isn’t near Derek, the effects will start to fade.

Not that he has any good sense left, but Stiles doesn’t think any part of him really wants to leave the Hales alone to suffer until no one can even remember them anymore.

Scott pulls him from his dark thoughts. “You smell weird.”

Stiles lifts himself to sit up, although Allison and Scott maintain grounding contact. “Weird how?”

“Like...wolf and Christmas trees and fire.” Scott wrinkles his nose, as if trying to make sense of it.

Stiles laughs. _Christmas trees_. He guesses it makes sense that’s how Scott would describe the evergreen smell that clings to Derek. It’s the other parts that catch him though, because Derek really shouldn’t have a scent, especially one detectable to other wolves. It’s not like he’s alive.

Scott hadn’t said anything about the scent before and Derek had been on him, had touched him then, too.

“That’s Derek,” Stiles says, trying to click things into place like a puzzle in his jumbled mind. “Sometimes he’s a forest, sometimes he’s a fire. He’s a forest fire.” Stiles shakes his head. He’s definitely losing it.

“You love him,” Allison starts slowly, but it’s not a question, “but what do you do? What is he like? You said it’s Derek and, um…” She stops, bites her lip.

“Laura,” Stiles fills in. “Yeah.” He jiggles his leg, as if trying to wake up his entire body. “We hang out, watch Netflix, I talk.”

There’s a very obvious hesitation, made all the more so by the markings far too visible on his skin.

“Do I wanna know?” Scott asks, and Allison pushes him.

“And?” she prompts.

“And we fuck.” Stiles runs his fingers through mussed hair, surely making himself appear even further disheveled than he already is. More frantic than he already is.

“But he’s a _ghost_!” Scott practically shouts in his ear.

And...huh. Everything is just one shade duller than it ought to be.

“You and Lydia have vastly differing opinions on what’s shock-worthy,” Stiles tells Scott.

Allison laughs. Of course she does. She’s probably in some happy medium between them, with Scott as her boyfriend and Lydia as her best friend. She sobers, purposely straightens her posture into something edging into respectfulness. “What did Lydia say?”

Stiles squints at them, one at a time as he must. “Uh…”

Allison raises an eyebrow.

Scott gawps at him.

“Lydia says that Derek and I are magically meant to be together,” Stiles lets out in a rush. “Because apparently werewolves can have mates.”

Stiles doesn’t have to look between them; seeing only Scott’s expression, he knows that Scott and Allison are exchanging longing glances as if they _aren’t_ in a comparably drama-free and love-filled relationship that makes his own life look even worse than it already is.

“I just want to reiterate the fact that Derek is _dead_ ,” Stiles interrupts, keeping Scott and Allison from furthering their Romeo-and-Juliet-esque eye-fucking session.

Scott and Allison seem at least _slightly_ ashamed.

 _Slightly_.

Stiles has a headache.

“I’m sorry,” Allison tells him earnestly, because apparently Scott can’t.

“I have to go back.”

Scott’s eyes go wide and his grip goes too pressured on Stiles’s shoulder. “Why?”

Stiles shakes his head. God, Scott is horrible about connecting the dots. “Because I think I’ll die if I don’t get Derek’s dick as soon as fucking possible.”

“And you mean this literally?” Allison asks.

Stiles nods.

Scott is trying to argue, to figure out what’s going on and yell about it, but Stiles can’t process it anymore.

“I gotta— I gotta go. Sorry. I just.” Stiles pushes them away abruptly, stands. Some distant part of him protests at having not even _tested_ the proximity thing. “Derek.”

“What—”

Any inquiries die as he staggers back to his Jeep.

“Sorry,” he manages. “I—” He can’t even finish the thought.

The pull shoves him back into the car and tears trail his cheeks as he drives back to the Hale house, to what feels like home on too many levels to comprehend.

Everything is but a distant sound as he makes his way back into the Preserve, and yet there’s no reprieve to how he feels until he’s inside, until Derek is inside of _him_.

They fuck right up against the door and Stiles is gripping Derek’s back with clawing desperation, still sobbing into Derek’s shoulder as he comes. Derek’s hands are soft where they cup his cheek, cradle his skull, his spine.

“I can’t live without you,” Stiles whispers, holds Derek close. They don’t separate for a long, horrible and wonderful length of time.

Derek kisses him to keep him quiet, to drown out all those nagging thoughts, but even without the nagging of the bond, Stiles would know how deep seated these feelings are. Derek is imbuing them into every single caress.

Maybe Stiles could live off of just this: off of having Derek and Derek having him.

They fuck again on the couch, in his bed, as if they’re worried once they stop, the world will catch up to them.

And Stiles will realize, for the last time, that Derek is dead.

~

Laura doesn’t need anyone to tell her: she can feel it on her own.

There’s a sense of unease, of unrest, that permeates the entire house after Stiles leaves, not that she sees him, but… But Laura _knows_ now when Stiles is there, like how he she knows Derek is there.

He’s not there and it’s not that unusual, but Derek doesn’t sound convinced when he tells her that Stiles had gone out into the Preserve to practice his spells.

Neither of them mention the missing file.

“ _It feels like being alive, doesn’t it? Having Stiles here with us?_ ” Laura tries for nonchalant and fails miserably. It’s true though. Stiles has become one of them. The wolf instincts tells them to be close to him, to protect him, to trust him.

Derek doesn’t answer for a long while and he sits, his face contemplative and sorrowful. “ _It does,_ ” he agrees.

They hear the sounds outside, sense Stiles getting closer only to hear him driving away.

“ _He’s leaving,_ ” Derek says.

“ _He’s left before,_ ” Laura assures. “ _He has his dad. They’re close. His friends._ ” And maybe this was the wrong train of thought, all of the reminders of who Stiles should belong to, the people he’d chosen consciously to love and care about. The living.

Time stretches wide before them, becomes meaningless in the silence.

Finally, Derek speaks and if Laura’s heart could beat, it would stutter in her chest.

“ _He shouldn’t come back._ ”

Laura stares at her brother. She knows why he says it and it’s that self-sacrificing, guilt-crippled bleeding heart that had been scraped raw since Paige’s death all those years ago. At least before that, he’d been able to pull himself out and up and laugh things off.

Kate had taken advantage of his damage, all his new weaknesses and insecurities. It had been so much easier then. And Derek hadn’t ever told Laura everything, but she’d known more than anyone else.

It’s why he’ll open up to her now.

“ _You don’t mean it._ ”

Derek shakes his head, warding her off, but it doesn’t work. “ _I do. He shouldn’t. He should stay as far away from us as possible. The bond— It shouldn’t function fully, right? It should be weak enough that he can get out of it, find something else. Someone else. Live his life._ ”

 _Live_.

Laura approaches and Derek shudders at her touch.

“ _I don’t think that’s an option anymore. I think fate has made that pretty clear, Der._ ”

“ _Stop saying that._ ”

Laura wishes she could, but they’re like broken records, spinning off-sync and hitting the same notes over again at different times. The meaning remains the same. “ _Maybe fate knows what it’s doing. Fate brought Stiles here, and with Stiles, you’re… You’re you and not you. You aren’t the thing you were these past few years. Derek, do you know how long it’s been since you actually **talked** to me? This— It has to be a good thing._ ” No heartbeat means the lie is harder to detect, or so Laura hopes.

“ _Stop acting like it’ll be okay,_ ” Derek snaps through his fangs, and it feels like a slap to the face.

Laura hesitates and then Derek looks to the window, anticipatory.

A second later, Laura hears the Jeep.

Stiles meets Derek in a crash of limbs and through everything else, Laura knows fear.

Laura had died knowing fearing in the purest, most panicked form, it doesn’t need to be spoken or explained.

The way they grasp at each other, the broken sounds they make, the current of tension in the air, all speak of the fear.

Fear of being together and fear of being apart.


	15. you cut through all the noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some sexual content (near the beginning)
> 
> This chapter was my biggest struggle, sorry!

Stiles doesn’t find rest.

His head hurts from crying, from— from _everything_. From worrying and not eating and where he’d slammed it back against the door. The aching hum of his body tells him of all he’s done, a new bitemark sucked deep into the flesh of his inner thigh.

“I know you’re real,” Stiles says, “but only here. And that’s… How am I supposed to live my life?”

Expressing the thought to Derek feels like breaking a thousand mirrors, like damning himself over and over again. It’s too close to the truth of the matter. He should move away, give them both the illusion of space to consider and discuss their future as it currently rests in fate’s palms. Instead, he buries his face into Derek’s throat because it feels safe.

This is all so dangerous.

Loving someone is bad enough.

Loving someone is risky and takes everything out of you.

This is…

It’s too hard and yet too easy. Stiles has been here two weeks and he’s completely and utterly enamored and there’s enough bleedthrough in their bond for him to think Derek feels the same.

And if Derek can feel and fuck, who’s to say he isn’t alive?

The way Derek can flicker out, the silence of his heart, they answer Stiles’s question with a resounding death knell.

Derek’s a close approximation, at least.

“ _If I could let you go—_ ”

Stiles covers Derek’s mouth with his hand. “Enough already. That’s not an option.”

He shifts their bodies. They’ve gotten so good at this that even Stiles, who had zero experience with anything but his own hand, just takes Derek’s cock, guides him in where he’s already fucked out and loose.

They rock together slowly, Stiles on top of Derek until Derek’s hands go to Stiles’s back, gently turn them over.

“ _I love you,_ ” Derek says, and it’s a phrase Stiles had never thought could be so gratifying. The power of those words had always seemed made up.

He pulls Derek in close and nods into Derek’s shoulder, hitches himself up to meet Derek.

Derek moves to take him in hand and Stiles shakes his head. He wants this to last and last and there’s no urgency in them now. They haven’t given the bond time to build and break them down to their primal instincts.

Stiles rolls his hips and is rewarded with a groan from Derek, with Derek nestling his nose beneath Stiles’s ear.

“Bite me,” Stiles whispers. “Come on, Derek. Do it.”

Derek’s teeth graze tantalizingly along the tendon of his neck and Stiles doesn’t care if it’s human teeth or wolf fangs that dig in next because he wants it all. He wants everything and he can’t have it.

On the wrong side of too sharp, but Stiles knows this Derek, the Derek whose mind is there with his, won’t hurt him.

Derek makes the mark high, above where any shirt collar would cover and Stiles holds him there when he tries to pull away.

The methodic pistoning of their hips, the grinding of their bodies, leads to a slow orgasm that sends shockwaves through them both.

They hold each other for far too long, but eventually, with Derek undeniably encompassing his every sense, Stiles manages to find sleep.

In his dreams, he runs with a big, black wolf. Its eyes are red, he thinks, but that can’t be right. It doesn’t make any sense (as if any dream really makes sense).

The wolf stops to stare at him. There’s a howl in the distance, and another. Closer.

The wolf howls up at the full moon where it hangs so large it threatens to fall from the sky, heavy with purpose.

“ _What does it mean?_ ” he asks, but the wolf only cocks his head in answer.

Stiles steps toward him and the wolf runs off again through the grass, ready to lead him on a merry chase.

Stiles feels someone pulling his hand and opens his eyes.

Laura is raising an eyebrow, tugging at him insistently.

“ _She says you need to take care of yourself,_ ” Derek tells him from the doorway, “ _and I agree._ ”

He can’t remember the last time he actually ate.

Maybe he’s dying again. Maybe he should just let himself die.

Laura gives him a shove and Stiles sits up. “Alright, alright. I’m going.”

He heads to the bathroom first, takes care of himself, showers, makes himself semi-decent. He can’t really do anything about the bites and the new one is already a deep, bruised purple.

Not that he _wants_ to do anything about the bites.

He likes them; he thinks Derek does, too.

Stiles calls out as he makes his way downstairs toward the kitchen. “Okay. Sorry, guys! Not trying to, like, freak you out or anything. I’ve just been, um. Distracted.” _Depressed_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say.

Then, the smell hits him.

It’s not the smell of fire or of evergreens or anything like that: It’s the smell of garlic sizzling in olive oil.

“What are you guys—” Stiles stops. The image before him is such a tableau, with Derek’s back muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he pokes at something on the stove and Laura peers over his shoulder in appreciative curiosity. Side by side like that, he can clearly see the family resemblance.

He can also clearly see a difference in how solid they are.

Derek looks like he could be just anyone Stiles might see on the street.

Well, that’s a definite exaggeration. Derek doesn’t look like anyone Stiles has ever seen before or likely _will_ ever see in the future.

The point is that nothing of his outward appearance screams that he isn’t alive, while Laura… Stiles can see through her still. She could look alive at passing glance, but definitely not if you actually focus on her.

Side by side, it’s very apparent.

Stiles swallows. He’s got a million things to think about, but first thing’s first and that’s the growling of his stomach at the scent of food. There’s nothing in the house Stiles can’t eat, so whatever Derek is making has to be something he likes.

Derek cuts up a couple of tomatoes, a zucchini. He uses the knife to scrape it all into the pan and takes the pan by the handle, his wrist shaking to make everything perfectly flip.

“Making anything in particular?” Stiles asks, sidling up on Derek’s other side. He rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, gets to feel Derek’s shrug and smirks.

A whisper.

“ _Shut up, Laura,_ ” Derek mutters under his breath and Stiles pulls back to share a glance with Laura and she smiles, nudges Derek’s ribs before stepping away.

“Do you need any help?” Stiles opens the fridge to see if there’s anything that he can add or that Derek might want. Derek leans past him and snags a container from the top shelf. Stiles chuckles. “Alright,” he says, holding up his hands. He gets out a plate, then decides to get out two because it feels rude not to. He sets them down on the counter next to Derek.

“ _Thanks._ ”

Stiles winks, clicks his tongue.

Laura gestures and they sit across from each other at the table. “I usually cook,” Stiles says. “After my mom, Melissa—Scott’s mom—she made stuff for me and my dad, but mostly it’s just me that tried to take care of us. My dad tried cooking a few times. I think he felt bad, but.” Stiles taps his fingers on the table. “Not so great.”

She nods in understanding, then says something Stiles can’t hear.

“ _Our dad cooked a lot for us when we were kids,_ ” Derek elaborates. “ _He taught me and Laura. Our mother, she could cook, too, but it was rare. She was our alpha and she worked a lot._ ”

“Your mother was your alpha?” Stiles asks, watches Derek nod, Laura following suit. “Talia, right?”

Derek’s back stiffens, but the bob of his head affirms that, as well. “ _Talia,_ ” he repeats.

“My mom died when I was a kid,” Stiles confesses. “Claudia. It’s hard to talk about her.” He tries not to think of her as she was at the end, hangs onto memories of when she would take him to the park near his school and when they’d read together before bed. She was always pushing him to try harder, to challenge himself. She had been so brilliant. Stiles swipes at his eyes, blinks at Laura as he forces a smile.

Laura oozes sympathy but she doesn’t dwell on it.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Derek says, and then he’s setting down a plate in front of Stiles.

The other plate remains on the counter, empty.

Stiles stares at his meal, lump in his throat, before he smiles at Derek. “Thanks. This looks great, Der. Really.” Vaguely, he realizes that he’s calling Derek a nickname. “Um. Or Derek. I can just call you Derek, that’s fine.”

“ _Whatever you want to call me,_ ” Derek says, taking a seat. “ _Within reason._ ”

Stiles stabs at his food. “I think we’re already pretty far outside the realm of _reason_ , Der-bear.”

Derek glares at him and Stiles drinks it in, grinning around a mouthful of what he’s pretty sure still counts as breakfast.

“You know the word ‘breakfast’ means to ‘break your fast,’ so it could really be any time of day as long as it’s your first meal,” he comments.

“ _Just eat,_ ” Derek orders, but Stiles sees the hint of amusement sparkling behind those hazel eyes.

They exchange a few more words, including random facts about plants—vegetables in particular—as Stiles eats and the Hales pretty much sit there to keep him company.

“What do we want to do today?” he poses as he washes his dishes.

Over the water, it’s harder to tell whether or not Laura responds, but Derek looks annoyed and he hadn’t done anything _really annoying_ in the past hour, so Stiles assumes Laura said something.

His suspicion is confirmed when Derek says, “ _Jesus, Laura. I’m not going to say that to him._ ”

Laura glares, speaks again without giving Stiles any idea as to what she means.

“Maybe I want to know.”

Again with the glare. Stiles has no idea why the glare pleases him so much.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. “Stop acting like your don’t love us.”

He catches sight of Laura watching them. He thinks she looks happy.

Stiles is just a couple of inches shorter than Derek so he presses into the balls of his feet to lean up and plant a soft, chaste kiss to Derek’s lips. “Thanks for taking care of me.” And his gaze locks with Derek’s. He kisses him again, shaking his head. “Both of you.”

Whatever Laura says has Derek staring far off, lost in something that isn’t there anymore.

“Derek?”

“ _Just don’t be an idiot,_ ” Derek tells him.

Stiles holds onto Derek to laugh, to _perform_ amusement since what Derek has said is so ridiculous as to be mocked. “Impossible.”

He asks again if they want to do anything in particular and with only a shrug from Derek, Stiles drags them to his room again.

Stiles pulls a book from his bag. It’s handwritten, notes scrawled across in different scripts. It’d been passed from generation to generation in a family of witches who had since died out or given up on magic—Stiles isn’t totally sure which. He just knows he can’t understand it well enough to make any use of it.

“Either of you know Spanish?”

Laura points to Derek, who rolls his eyes. “ _We’re fluent._ ”

Laughing, Stiles forks over the book along with a blank notebook. “Of _course_ you are. Now get translating.”

Stiles isn’t sure whether or not he expected more resistance to the idea, but he’s pleasantly surprised when Derek just huffs an exasperated sigh and opens the spellbook. Laura starts gesturing to the text immediately and Stiles’s head starts to hurt with the rapid amount of what still seems _white noise_.

“Let me know if you need me,” he tells them, then shoves in earbuds and starts in on his own work. If not resurrection, there has to be something else. Can he move them? Can he call on them? Summon them?

If he shoves a bunch of spells together, he can do something. Not bring them back, but… But maybe he can enchant a mirror and communicate with them from afar. Or trap one of the spirits in a— Hm. No. That sounds bad.

He may have hit a major wall, but Stiles can find some other way to lessen the burden. Maybe...maybe a mating bond can be broken.

Stiles feels like he can’t breathe, clutches at his chest.

Derek looks up from the book, brows furrowed, and Stiles waves him off.

Okay.

Breaking the bond definitely doesn’t feel like the answer, if there even is an answer to be found there.

He texts back and forth with his friends, tries to find balance. Normalcy. It bridges the gap, if only in the tiniest of ways, to know that he can communicate with the outside world from here even if the opposite isn’t true.

“ _Are you hungry?_ ” Derek asks a little while later and Stiles shakes himself out of the magical tangent he’d gone on, pulls an earbud out.

_...tongue-tied like I’ve never known, telling these stories we’ve already told, ’cause we don’t say what we really mean..._

“Uh. Should I be?”

Laura glares.

“Yeah. Let me just—”

Derek holds up a hand. “ _I got it._ ”

Stiles blinks up at him, alert, but he lets his shoulders sag with relief. “Cool.”

He catches Derek’s pleased smile before Derek disappears out the door.

“You’re making him do this, aren’t you?” Stiles stares at Laura, who is still poring over the text.

Laura shrugs, gives him a yes-and-no hand gesture.

“Am I losing my mind?” he asks, quieter. “I can’t think about anything but all this. I wanted to find answers about magic and the woods and be a badass witch out here all by myself and then I…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Laura pushes her foot against Stiles’s leg. She gestures, to the books, over to all the stuff he’d gathered, the potions sitting around on the desk.

“I trapped a ghoul once,” Stiles says, letting himself brag. “And dispelled it with an incantation I found in a book from the library. The _library._ ”

Everything about how Laura waves her hand says, _See?_

Stiles clicks his pen incessantly for a minute and just bites his lip, twirls the cords of his earphones around the pen and his fingers. “And if I can do that, I have to be able to do something here. I can’t bring you back. I’ve looked everywhere. That’s why I freaked out yesterday and I’m just trying now...not to break down again. Because that doesn’t fix anything.”

Tinny from the speakers of his earbuds, the music continues.

_...we’re not who we used to be, we don’t see what we used to see, we’re just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me..._

Laura’s teasing expression disappears and she plops onto the floor beside him, legs criss-crossed.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Stiles breathes out, too fast. “The three of us.”

With a contemplative look, Laura nods.

Stiles has the gall to smile at her. “As long as we’re all clear.”

He makes a few half-assed notes while Laura watches and then Derek returns with a bowl of soup which he finds himself salivating over.

Stiles closes his book and sets it aside. He grins at the two Hales. “Netflix?”

He ends up falling asleep on Derek halfway through a movie.

In his dreams, he’s back in the field and the wolf is waiting.

~

Laura can see Stiles growing thinner, paler. Perhaps it’s not by much, but he’s gaunt and the bags under his eyes have become a noticeable distraction from the markings her brother has imprinted into his skin. She feels extremely vindicated in the knowledge that she was right when she’s pretending that this will all turn out okay.

“ _You don’t need to eat or sleep, but he does,_ ” she tells Derek when he emerges from the bedroom. She knows better than to enter without being invited nowadays.

Last night, she had only gone to check if Stiles was sleeping and she had caught an eyeful.

“ _What do you want me to do?_ ” Derek asks and Laura smacks him on the shoulder.

She waits until Derek is lifting an eyebrow at her. God, he would’ve been helpless left alone. “ _He’s your mate. If your mate is unwell, you have to take care of him. Have your instincts failed you that badly?_ ”

Derek’s expression turns painfully embarrassed and she’s glad that’s been the case more often. It suits him far better than guilt. “ _I take care of him in other ways._ ”

Laura sighs. “ _That’s too much. I mean, I know. But...too much. I know too much._ ”

“ _You sound like Stiles._ ”

“ _You two are the only people I’ve talked to in years. Of course I sound like him. I’m sure I sound like you, too._ ” She shudders for effect. “ _Awful._ ”

Derek huffs. “ _I see your point, Laura. But you never answered my question._ ”

Laura points toward the room. “ _Look at him._ ”

“ _He should probably eat. Take a shower._ ” Derek shrugs.

“ _I know it’s hard to think about when you’re so busy fucking each other’s brains out, but he’s human._ ”

Derek blushes to the tips of his ears.

“ _You don’t have to take care of him even, but he’s gotta take care of himself. I know he can be self-sufficient when he’s not distracted by your dick._ ”

“ _Could you stop?_ ” Derek stares at her, pleading, and she knows that she has chosen the correct tactic for urging him into action.

“ _Sex is nothing to be ashamed—_ ”

“ _ **Laura**._ ”

Stiles mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and Laura strides into the room with purpose.

She doesn’t bother saying his name because he can’t hear her anymore. Or, at least, he shouldn’t be able to hear her. She _hopes_ he can’t hear her.

One of his arms is flopped over the side of the bed and Laura concentrates her energy into her hand, into grabbing onto his. She goes further to get Stiles up.

Derek hovers behind her and when Stiles lifts his head, cheek wrinkled by his pillow, Derek explains.

Of course Stiles is groggy. One cannot survive on dick alone and Laura can see the monster— _truly_ —of a hickey high on his throat, catches the unfortunate glimpse of his thigh as he sits up and the moon-and-star sheets shift. It’s probably his magic that even keeps him upright at this point.

She ushers Derek downstairs as Stiles heads to the bathroom.

“ _You have control, right?_ ”

“ _Of my wolf?_ ”

Laura shakes her head. “ _Of the world._ ” She passes her hand through the banister.

Derek places his hand on top of it. “ _I guess._ ”

“ _Take care of your mate._ ” Inclining her head toward the kitchen, she knows Derek is finally putting the pieces together.

Derek thinks aloud as he scans through the ingredients on the counter and the contents of the refrigerator.

“ _No meat,_ ” he comments. “ _I don’t think I could handle the smell of it. How it looks…_ ”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Laura agrees, no elaboration needed. Something else sticks out though. “ _How much can you scent now?_ ”

Derek pauses, breathes in deep. “ _Stiles._ ”

She laughs. “ _Okay, loverboy._ ”

Derek starts in as she watches and Stiles joins them a few minutes later, asking about what Derek’s cooking.

“ _He’d like anything you made for him,_ ” she teases.

“ _Shut up, Laura._ ”

Sharing a look with Stiles, Laura lets it go and they leave Derek to it. Stiles talks about his dad again, about taking care of him.

Laura turns to look at Derek. “ _I can’t imagine mom dealing with us like dad did._ ”

“ _Our dad cooked,_ ” Derek starts, and Laura can see it all perfectly in her head. Their dad was always trying new recipes and would make two separate meals when the younger kids were too picky. Or whenever someone didn’t feel well. He had been a great cook and their mother had told them when they complained that it was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.

And then they’re onto the subject of mothers.

Talia had been born a werewolf in a family of werewolves, could complete a full shift down to all fours, become nothing but a wolf. She was revered by other alphas for this, among her many other traits, and she took good care of their pack, despite what Peter insinuated after the ordeal with Kate. Talia did so much, but she was stretched thin sometimes.

Stiles had lost his mother a long time ago, but it’s clear the pain cuts deep when he thinks of her.

Stiles eats and teases Derek and all that hurt fades to the background, he tries to ask about their day and Laura can’t help herself.

“ _I’m sure I know what you two would like to do today, but I’d prefer something that involved less nudity. I know ghosts are supposed to **moan** , but I think you’re taking it to a new level. So, sure, Derek, tell him what’s on your mind._” She knows what must be on Derek’s mind now by his expression.

“ _Jesus, Laura. I’m not going to say that to him._ ”

She smirks and presses it just a little more for her own amusement, then watches as Derek and Stiles get wrapped up in each other, in a thankfully chaste way.

“Thanks for taking care of me. Both of you.”

“ _Of course. You’re pack,_ ” Laura says earnestly, without a trace of hesitation.

And he is. She can feel it.

They end up working for a long time with a spellbook and she argues with Derek about the translation before she sees him take initiative and ask about feeding Stiles.

Some rational part of him is definitely back online.

After he leaves, however, Stiles opens up to her about wanting to bring them back and that, in itself, is enough to floor her. His disappointment at his inability is what literally does it though.

He’s doing everything he can and he doesn’t think it’s enough. He should know it’s enough.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

God.

“As long as we’re all clear,” he says, and then he’s acting like it’s nothing.

This kid’s perseverance makes her six years of trying to maintain control seem like mere minutes.

Derek returns with a bowl for Stiles.

It’s a hearty vegetable soup with rice that their dad would make in the winter, kept them warm and full and comforted. It’s fitting for a night like tonight, for keeping Stiles nourished and showing that he can provide and protect.

The three of them watch movies until Stiles falls asleep and Derek is gentle with him as he puts him into the bed, crawls in with him.

Laura takes a moment to glance out the window.

Tomorrow is the full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _final chapter_ should be up by tomorrow, latest, but I seriously appreciate all your comments. Thank you. ♥


	16. how it feels to have a heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual content*
> 
> This is it! The end of this fic!
> 
> *see end notes for specific warning and more notes

Derek paces the room, restless, and Stiles watches him with bleary eyes.

“What’s…” He stifles a yawn.

“ _Full moon tonight,_ ” Derek answers.

Stiles huffs, smothers his face into his pillow. It smells like Derek.

The moon grows impossibly large in his dreams.

Stiles wakes to Derek chest to his back, Derek’s mouth to his shoulder.

He comes before he’s fully conscious.

Derek doesn’t let him shower and Stiles shrugs. It’s not like anyone but the Hale wolves are in the house and if they want him to stink today, he can stink.

He catches Derek nuzzling into him, inhaling deeply in ways and places that far exceed the boundaries of modesty.

Stiles had always suspected he’d be into the weirder werewolf stuff, but Derek is really giving it to him no holds barred and he’s down for all of it. So very, very down.

It’s not just Derek though.

Even Laura must feel the pull of the oncoming full moon.

Stiles has seen Laura shift only once but her eyes are golden as she stares out the window as he emerges from the bedroom.

Stiles greets Laura only for Derek to growl, to crowd him up against a wall and put his hands all over him.

Stiles loves Derek and he loves touching Derek, but this is… Wow. It’s a little much.

If only because he didn’t initiate it, which. Huh. Stiles hadn’t realized how often he had been the one to start something between them, and now it’s been twice in one morning.

Derek is trying to be respectful of him and his wishes and he doesn’t think it’s because Derek sees him as a weak, young human, but because Derek sees him as his mate. What little he’s been able to glean about mates is that wolves are protective of them, loyal, and, it seems, possessive of them.

When Laura greets Stiles, Derek positions himself between them.

“It’s alright, big guy,” Stiles assures. “I’m all yours.” He saves a raised eyebrow for Laura, who shakes her head, walks away.

“ _The bond is new. It makes this different, more difficult._ ”

“Why? I’d think that it’d make things easier, right? Like, hey, built-in buddy system. You know, if I were a werewolf, too.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. It’s a very Stiles move and Stiles is pleased to see Derek imitating his terrible habits, and to see at least some way in which Derek’s appearance can be easily altered.

“Der?”

Derek shakes his head. “ _You’re my mate, but I can’t claim you._ ”

At this, Stiles balks at him. He gestures to his throat, then to his _entire body_. “Can’t _claim_ me? Buddy, I don’t know what you think we’ve been doing, but it seems pretty damn clear I’ve been claimed. Google satellite images are projecting just how very taken I am across the globe right now.”

“ _It’s not just the marks,_ ” Derek elaborates. “ _And it’s the first full moon that we’re together. That’s what the stories’d say. Under the moon, you and your mate…_ ” Derek trails off and clears his throat, distinctly uncomfortable.

“You can’t tell me what your wolfy instincts wanna do to me? Derek, we fucked seven times last night. _Seven_. That’s… In itself, that’s not very _human_. You’ve been all up on and in this for _days_.” Again, his hands rove over his body and he notes that Derek’s gaze tracks the movement. “What now?”

“ _It’s...intimate. It’s the most intimate thing a wolf can do._ ” Derek’s voice is strained, overly formal.

Stiles raises two incredulous eyebrows. “Is there some sort of freaky werewolf sex I don’t know about?” Stiles goes to grab his phone. “God, I hope I don’t die before I get a chance to clear my search history.”

Derek puts a hand over Stiles’s, lowering the phone. He stares up at the ceiling and works his jaw as he gathers the courage to speak.

Stiles _really_ wants to make fun of him, but his curiosity is winning the war for control so he gives Derek a second to work it out.

“ _There’s a thing. A thing werewolves can do with mates._ ”

Being quiet has never been so difficult. Stiles hums, gives a tight nod to show he’s listening. Energy beads under his skin, itching to be released.

“ _Do you know what knotting is?_ ”

And that’s it.

That’s the end of Stiles’s ability to not absolutely _scream_. “ _What_? No. What?! That’s a real thing? I’m one hundred percent sure I asked Deaton and he told me that I read too many fantasy books.” Stiles catches his breath, calms himself. “I mean. Tell me more.” He purses his lips, tilts his head at Derek inquiringly.

Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles and Stiles smirks at his discomfort. “ _It’s real. I’ve never done it, obviously._ ”

“But it’s real. Like, for real. It’s real. Lycanthropic knotting,” Stiles babbles, popping the “p” in lycanthropic.

Derek holds his head like he’s getting a headache, which brings a whole new realm of questions to Stiles’s ADD brain. Like, can werewolves get headaches? Are headaches like physical injury or is a lot of it more, like, _imagined_ pain? Psychosomatic and all that.

It’s times like this he wonders if he should’ve stopped taking his Adderall in favor of finding more natural (and magical) solutions.

But keeping track of time when you run with wolves—and often _away_ from a million other things—doesn’t always work.

 _Focus_ , he tells himself. He starts nodding methodically, if only to put his excess brainpower into doing something rather than continuing to think about werewolf biology. Wait. That’s exactly what subject he’s _supposed_ to be on. Shit. “Are you saying you want to _knot_ me under the full moon?” he asks, squinting at Derek.

Derek turns away, back. He shuts his eyes. “ _I don’t think it’s possible._ ”

Stiles throws up his hands in defeat. “First you tell me knotting is a thing and then you tell me it’s not. Ha. _Knot_.” He shakes his head, laughing at his own joke, before he sobers. “No, really. I’m confused.”

“ _I’m **dead** , Stiles. There are things I just can’t do. If we complete the bond, maybe things will get better, or maybe they’ll get worse, but I don’t think we **can**. Not like that. But my body, it’s— My instincts want to pin you down and keep you there until they’re certain you’re mine and that you could never be anyone else’s._ ”

“Isn’t that kinda obvious with the whole bond...thing? That I’m yours and no one else’s? Which, by the way, is phrasing that both turns me on and makes me feel like I’m, like, your housecat. Should I be worried about that?”

“ _There are other bonds, Stiles. Just not… Not like ours._ ”

Stiles shrugs. He guesses that must make sense. He doesn’t ask about Derek’s parents because Derek is having trouble even _mentioning_ what he wants to do to Stiles. And Derek had bent Stiles over the desk last night and said some _obscene_ things.

If he can barely say the _word_ knotting to Stiles, he certainly doesn’t want to discuss the barest fraction of his parents’ sex life. It’s kind of endearingly normal, considering Derek grew up in a family of werewolves.

Not wanting to think about your parents having sex is a consistent constant, likely made more disastrous by heightened senses.

It’s a thought that allows him to finally start making breakfast decisions instead of Derek-related inquiries.

Stiles doesn’t have the attention span to watch the stove, so he goes simple. Fruit and granola, easy and impossible to accidentally set the house on fire in assembling.

Unless his magic goes out of control or—

“Does the full moon effect humans? I don’t know if it’s that or lack of prescription drugs that has me so off right now, like my brain is going to eat itself.” He hopes his tone is light enough that he doesn’t freak out already on-edge werewolves.

Laura shrugs, but she doesn’t get too close as they make their way to the couch, Derek stuck to Stiles’s side like he’ll blow away.

A squirrel chitters in a tree next to the living room window and both Hales turn to the sound keenly. Stiles can imagine dog ears twitching to follow the sound and stifles a laugh into his phone as he checks an article, sends a text. “I was thinking of going out today,” he tries.

A low, rumbling growl sounds beside him and Stiles sighs.

“Or not,” Stiles allows. He lets his back fall against Derek’s side and shoulder, hopes that helps. “Some of the stuff I gathered should be dry by now, or close. I can start working on a few potions. Here, in the house. That work for you, sourwolf?”

“ _I want you close,_ ” Derek says. “ _And it’s worse for me than usual. How do you feel? Is the bond the same for you?_ ”

Stiles hadn’t particularly thought about it. It’s mostly the active and urgent call for Derek that he processes fully, maybe a dull hum in his chest. He’s very aware of each and every point at which their bodies are touching, but he doesn’t know whether or not that’s normal. He has so very little experience outside of this weird werewolf mating bond that should his life suddenly flip and leave him to the dating world, he’d likely be floundering.

 _Likely_ being an understatement.

For some reason, even in his head, the person waiting for him in the restaurant is Derek. A Derek who smiles at him from across the table and offers to split a dessert.

He has Derek and he fantasizes about _different scenarios_ involving Derek.

That’s pretty far gone.

“ _Stiles?_ ” Derek prompts, shifting away so that their eyes can meet.

“Dunno, but, uh. Touching is good. Touching is always good.”

Until he’s crushing herbs and touching becomes too good, Derek’s fingers on his neck, prodding proudly at the bite.

Stiles lets out a moan, breath stuttering as Derek continues, mouth hot on the back of his neck. “Is it supposed to feel like that?” he asks. “Are the marks, like, _special_ or is it just me?”

“ _You’re definitely special,_ ” Derek says, but something in his voice tells Stiles he’s not thinking about what he’s saying.

In another moment, Stiles isn’t thinking either, with one of Derek’s hands down his pants and the other up his shirt.

It ends up only a tease and Stiles takes a good five minutes to calm himself down and try to remember what he was working on.

He tries talking to Laura, but she’s not much help.

She walks in and out of rooms at random, slips through the walls a couple of times while Stiles is watching her. Each time, she gives an uncomfortable shudder, but she gets distracted and it happens again.

Snacking on apple chips, then carrots and pita with hummus, Stiles tries to keep his caloric intake up. He’s got no idea what Derek is going to do to him, but he’ll likely need to keep himself up.

Stiles also tries not to salivate over the idea of getting knotted.

“You never should’ve said it if you knew you couldn’t deliver,” he mutters.

Derek looks at him.

Stiles just pretends he hadn’t said anything at all.

He half-completes about a dozen _possible_ spells before dark. It gets dark so early this time of year, but that’s good for the ghosts.

Stiles takes a moment to stare out the window before deciding he needs to be closer, even if it’ll be cold. He slides open the glass and feels the breeze coming through, hears the leaves whispering.

“ _It’s so strong,_ ” Derek says, and Stiles isn’t sure if he means the moon or the bond.

“You okay?”

He snaps his teeth, but not at Stiles.

Usually when the wolf’s been close, Stiles has been far—physically or emotionally—but not this time.

Derek doesn’t fade out, color in him clear and bright, eyes luminescent and blue. He’s here and so is his wolf.

“ _I haven’t felt it like this in a long time,_ ” Derek says slowly, swallowing thickly.

“Not that you can remember,” Stiles murmurs, then shuts himself up.

Derek raises an eyebrow like he’s in disbelief of Stiles, who is going to attribute the expression to how awesome and good-looking he is.

Stiles sighs and takes Derek’s clawed hand, examining it. “You look for something, right? Something to hold onto? Something to give you control?”

“ _An anchor._ ”

“Right. Anchor.” Stiles keeps his gaze locked with Derek’s. “What’s your anchor?”

“ _You,_ ” Derek admits. “ _You’re my anchor. My mate._ ”

“Your everything?” Stiles teases. He draws Derek toward him and Derek’s fangs make the kiss sharp, but Stiles doesn’t mind, letting the tip of his tongue touch a pointed incisor.

“ _Stiles…_ ”

Stiles glances over his shoulder at the bed then waggles his eyebrows at Derek. “What do you say? It might not be _exactly_ what you wanted but I bet I could do the other spell on purpose this time, with the, uh.”

“ _Start trying,_ ” Derek says, more like a threat.

Stiles swallows and siphons magic from the air. Wordless, runeless, motionless magic had seemed completely impossible before, so he’s definitely gained something from his stay in the house, or maybe through his bond with Derek.

He strips before Derek has the chance to strip him and Derek swallows down his plaintive sounds as they land on the bed, as Derek’s fingers work into him and Stiles rocks himself against them. “More,” but then whatever else he might say is muffled in Derek’s neck and chest as he writhes.

Already, Stiles is so hard he’s leaking and he reaches down to stroke himself, hand covered by Derek’s a second later as soon as Derek has freed his fingers, cock nudging against Stiles’s hole.

They rut without finesse, chasing friction, before Stiles cants his hips and Derek finally presses into him, causing them both to groan.

“God, that’ll never stop being _amazing_ ,” Stiles whispers and he wraps a leg around Derek’s to urge him on.

Derek is half-shifted, fangs and glowing eyes, and Stiles is touching the pointed tips of his ears and laughing.

Stiles is so into Derek, human or wolf. It doesn’t matter as long as it’s Derek.

Derek fucks into him hard, starts up a pace that has Stiles scrabbling to keep up, finding himself unable.

Stiles makes incoherent sounds, only stuttering breaths, keening embarrassingly when orgasm hits him.

And then Derek is groaning, spilling into him. Stiles feels something swell in him, stretch him.

Derek’s blue eyes turn red.

His knot is a solid, grounding heat that ties them together.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, and his hand finds Derek’s face, confusion and reverence warring to the surface. His fingertips move to Derek’s throat and he—

He feels something.

Stiles feels a _pulse_ beneath his fingers and lets out a sound like a sob.

The next thing Stiles processes is pain all over him as bites and scratches and marks flare to life before fading out again. He shouldn’t be surprised by the soreness that overtakes his body, but then Derek is kissing him and it feels better. It feels better and maybe his eyes open mid-kiss and—

“Whoa. Oh my god.” The black veins recede from Derek’s face, but continue to snake up his arms. Stiles doesn’t dare look elsewhere.

“You’re in pain.”

Stiles goggles at him, pushes his fingers into Derek’s cheek just because he can. “And that’s _so totally fine_. Because Derek… Derek, you’re alive.” Derek’s eyes are on his and Derek’s… “And knotting is definitely a thing. A thing we are doing.” He grinds against it and although he should be spent and the claim must’ve taken, given what’s happened and _Derek_ , he finds himself twitching, ready for more.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and he leans in, nuzzles into Stiles’s neck to mouth gently at the marks, to lathe them soothingly with his tongue. “Did you always taste this good? Feel this good?” He rolls his hips, careful so as not to jostle or tug.

Stiles bites his lip, blunt human fingernails on Derek’s back, clawing into what is definitely flesh. “Did you?”

They kiss in messy, hungry fragments of time, moving fractionally against one another until Stiles clutches at Derek, toes curling as he comes again.

It’s still a little while before they can break apart, and a while longer still before they want to. Stiles spends the entire time switching between laughing and crying.

Derek rests their foreheads together, breathing slow.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks.

“I’m just trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.”

Stiles pushes at Derek until Derek is lying flat on the bed, presses his ear to Derek’s chest. His fingers tap out the rhythm like it’s the sweetest song he’s ever heard and, by far, it _is_.

It is.

It is, it is, it is.

All to the _thump-thumping_ beat of Derek’s heart.

Eventually they make it out of bed.

Stiles feels filthy and truly sore in all the ways he hadn’t but likely should’ve since he started sleeping with Derek and he loves every delicious intricacy of it. Even as he feels it starting to slide down his inner thigh.

They clean up in the bathroom, even though the full moon urges Derek to do some _less-than-cleanly_ things to Stiles in the process.

Stiles is certain the whole _Derek-is-alive_ deal will hit him harder again later, but for now he just soaks it all in.

And asks the same kinds of questions that he always does.

“So is that a thing you can do all the time now? I mean, I’m gonna need some recovery time, but I bet with a little bit of magic I could be down again soon. Very soon. Like—”

“Stiles.”

Stiles stills his hands where he’s gesturing and tilts his head at Derek.

“Do you want to go outside?”

A long pause as Stiles’s face morphs through a series of expressions, settling into a tentative smile unlike he’s ever had reason to show. “Outside?” Derek nods. “Definitely.”

With an uneasy glance around, Stiles doesn’t follow Derek’s lead toward the door.

“Derek?”

Derek doesn’t answer and Stiles knows he’s thinking about her, too.

 _What about Laura?_ never leaves his lips.

They’ll take care of Laura like she’s taken care of them.

After all, she’s pack.

~

Laura enjoys feeling her wolf beneath the surface on the day of the full moon. She likes the energy it gives her, the way it heightens her senses.

She loses some of her inhibitions with the moon rising and she imagines it must be why humans enjoy intoxication so much, whatever way they find it.

Stiles barely looks at her before Derek is all over him, reasserting his claim.

It’s completely unnecessary. Laura has no reason to cause upset in their den, in the pack. There are only three of them, so for two to fight is already two too many.

Derek’s mate will be safe.

Stiles. _Stiles_ will be safe.

Her thoughts drift in and out of coherency as the wolf follows the movement of a bird outside.

Most of the day is lost to avoiding conflict, to letting her brother have his mate and do whatever he can to enforce that mating bond that ties them irrevocably together.

The wolf in her knows that they’ll figure it out, instincts tell her everything will be okay in a way she’s been telling them but never quite able to believe herself.

She believes it now.

And later, she feels the whole house shudder and convulse, the status quo change.

For one second, Laura feels completely alone before the pack bonds sink in.

Derek and Stiles are mated.

And Derek…

Derek isn’t like her anymore.

He doesn’t roam the spectral plane and she guesses he hasn’t belonged to it since he laid a hand on Stiles and this whole thing started.

If fate could end Stiles’s life, why couldn’t it bring Derek’s back?

And if Derek’s alive, her duty should be over. She had hung on to make sure he was alright and that he didn’t lose himself and Derek is very much found.

Maybe _this_ , maybe _Stiles_ , is the reason he hadn’t moved on to begin with. Maybe it wasn’t just his guilt that tied him to the mortal plane, but his _mate_.

Her wolf accepts how tricky fate can be with far more ease than Laura can.

Derek is _alive_.

She should be happy, ready to move on.

She should be walking into the arms of their mother.

She _should_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILER FOR CHAPTER: Some very necessary and meaningful knotting (and that tag has been there since day one, I'm surprised no one questioned it) and more magical self-lubrication.
> 
> I know there are unanswered questions and I've left Laura in a precarious position, but I only ever planned to resolve Derek's arc through this fic. Sorry!
> 
> >Possibilities: As some of you know from the comments, Laura was originally meant to...well, _actually die_ at the end, but I grew very attached to her. I have an idea as to what happens to her next but I really needed a solid finish line for this fic. Cora was also supposed to make a living appearance in this and I still want to include her but, again, I decided to save that for the future. (Perhaps she can team up with Derek and Stiles to take down Kate...)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's gone through this journey with me and especially to those who have commented and encouraged me to finish. I hope you're all doing well and have enjoyed reading this. **Special thanks to[Anefi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/works) for reading it over/beta'ing, [novkat21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novkat21/works) for being a taskmaster who forced me to keep going, [impalafortrenchcoats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalafortrenchcoats/works) for helping inspire this (thanks to Halloween dildo colors, FYI), and to everyone in the [sterekdrabbles](http://sterekdrabbles.tumblr.com) discord group who kept me going (and did five million sprints with me).** You're all freaking amazing.
> 
>  **Chapter Title Attributions:**  
>  Harry Styles:  
> "Two Ghosts" (Chapters 1 & 16, lyrics in 15, title)  
> "Sweet Creature" (Chapter 4)  
> "Carolina" (Chapter 5)  
> "Only Angel" (Chapter 6)  
> "Ever Since New York" (Chapters 11 & 12)  
> "Woman" (Chapter 14)
> 
> "Haunting" by Halsey (Chapters 2, 3, 10, & 13)  
> "Ghost" by Halsey (Chapter 7)  
> "...Ready For It?" by Taylor Swift (Chapter 8)  
> "The Anchor" by Bastille (Chapters 9 & 15)
> 
> ...Long endnotes are long. But this is the longest fic I've ever _finished_ writing. (I say, leaving open possibilities for more.)
> 
>  **Hit me up on[tumblr](http://allourheroes.tumblr.com) to bother me for more of this or other things or just to hang out.** ♥
> 
> And please, please, please leave comments on here. They give me light and life on dark days. :)


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